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FISHERMAN’S GAT 


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Fisherman’s Gat 

(The Issue) 


A STORY OF THE RIVER THAMES 


By 

EDWARD NOBLE 

Author of “The Edge of Circumstance” 


“ The seed ye sow another reaps ; 

The wealth ye find another keeps ; 

The robes ye weave another wears ; 

The arms ye forge another bears ." — Shelley. 



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New York 

Doubleday, Page & Company 

1907 



CONTENTS 

PART I. <2ttoo 9?en ana a Sl^art 

CHAPTER PACK 

I. The Legend of the Gat ... 3 

II. Susie Watches a Procession . . 20 

III. Saunderson Seeks Advice . . .27 

IV. Mrs. Sutcliffe Deals the Cards . 36 

V. And Plays her Hand . . .48 

VI. Susie Revokes . . . . 56 

VII. The Inquisitor 63 

PART II. Sl^en anli %ieit Q^asitet 

I. The Master . . . . .69 

II. The Sea-wall 80 

III. Clack ...... 90 

IV. Micky Doolan Explains ... 94 

V. Mother Keyne . . . . .100 

VI. The Woman Pays . . . .109 

PART III, Ettec ot Hitt 

I. Inquisitorial . . . . .123 

II. Sutcliffe’s Return . . . . 126 

III. The Search 134 

IV. Saunderson Plays a Trump . . 141 

V. Sutcliffe Seeks a Reply . . .148 

VI. The Difficulty of Belief . . . 159 

VII. A Curtain Lecture . . . .170 

VIII. Zulu Supplies a Parallel . . 174 

IX. The Methods of the Scorcher . .185 

X. In Limine ..... 194 


PAGE 


PART IV. SfginninB of tfie Cnli 

CHAPTER 

I. Saunderson Moves . . . .209 

II. Conditional 218 

III. Tom’s Defence 228 

IV. The Sea-wall .... 238 

V. The Sluckit-sasser . . . .246 

VI. Tooth and Nail . . . *253 

PART V. &aunliet0on Eealnai 

I. The Prophecy of Old Moore . .267 

II. Tony Produces his Link . . 275 

III. The Strike 284 

IV. Finem Respice .... 303 

V. Snuffles . . . . . .314 

PART VI. -laed CBauntlet*' 

I. A Woman Passes . . . *323 

II. The Freedom of a Slave . . 333 

III. Mrs. Surridge Gives Advice . . 338 

IV. Saunderson ’s Luck Changes . . 346 

V. Mrs. Surridge Moves . . ‘352 

VI. Bill Marley . . . . *363 

VII. A Challenge 378 

VIII. The Issue 384 

IX. The Two who Sowed . . , *391 

406 


Epilogue 


DRAMATIS PERSONS 


Jim Saunderson, a skipper of coasting vessels and a labour 
leader. An agitator of meagre education but 
with the gift of speech. Leader of the Riverton 
Strike and a man of passionate characteristics, 
handicapped throughout by his dread of the 
supernatural — “ the Curse of the Gat ” as he 
terms it. 

Susie Sutcliffe, a mistress in a Church school, and refined 
and gentle beyond her station. She is the belle 
of the village, and is loved by the two men, 
Saunderson and Elliott. 

Jack Elliott, skipper of the tug. Stormy Petrel^ who, in the 
work of salving a derelict becomes involved also 
in the Curse of the Gat. A fact of which he 
does not know, and if he knew, one at which he 
would laugh. A quick tempered and rather im- 
petuous character. One of the more modern 
Thames skippers. 

Micky Doolan, a yarn-spinning Irishman, mate of the Tanta- 
lus^ and later, skipper of the Stormy Petrel. 

Wakeley Dunscombe, the men’s master. A hard man who 
grinds his hands in the mill of competition with- 
out remorse. 

The Scorcher, his successor and a chip of the old block. 


Tony Crow, the village blacksmith. Strong, honest, and not 
swift of comprehension. 

George Sutcliffe, an old type “ Thames skipper,” a man 
going slowly down hill; oppressed by his wife’s 
oratory, staggered by her biblical quotations — 
and conscious only of his love for “the Lass,” 
Susie, the child of a former marriage. 

Mrs. Surridge, Susie’s aunt, wife of Tom Surridge, a small 
farmer living on the Thames borderland. The 
pair act as father and mother to the girl after 
she leaves Abbeyville. 

Sailors, bargees, shipwrights, “ Cementies.” 

SCENE 

Abbeyville, Riverton, Swinfleet — towns and villages on 
the Thames between Long Reach and the Nore. The 
Estuary, London Docks, and the old river. 


PROLOGUE 


Far out admidst the labyrinth of shoals which throng the 
river’s mouth lies Fisherman’s Gat. 

A narrow strip of seething foam marks the place at low 
water; but when the tide is high, and the sea smooth, small 
vessels can pass the bar in perfect safety. 

It is the fisherman’s gateway through the Long Sands, and 
saves many a mile to those who use it. Some cn no account 
would make a passage there; others laugh and blithely sail 
on. But the superstition which was woven about the place 
deep in the shadow of by-gone years, dies slowly, and those 
who believe will go far to avoid the misery of the curse. 

For here, in the path of the Gat, on soft, sheeney nights 
when the moon is only thinly veiled; or when the Gat has 
bared its teeth before the spume and smother of a southeast 
gale, sounds drive down the wind and a shadow of a man is 
seen, sometimes rowing, sometimes standing, sometimes 
struggling with a boat — and the curse of the Gat falls on all 
who see him at his task. 







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PART I, 

TWO MEN AND A MAID 



Part I 

Ctoo ^en anD a #aiD 


CHAPTER I 

The Legend of the Gat 

N O WIND, high water, sundown — and a schooner 
crawling slowly up the Black Deeps. 

The river eyed her sleepily. It made pictures of her 
rigging, her sails, her attenuated masts; it sketched very 
correctly a dangling jib sheet with a too large block, hanging 
from the bows; then threw out little rills, soft, oily, indefinite, 
and the picture was blurred. It took now the appearance of 
a drawing carelessly blotted. The lines became straggled, the 
sails blotched and ragged, the ropes efforts of a tribe of spiders 
with inky legs; again, in a moment, it stood perfect. The 
rills had vanished. The river slept. 

Across the sky a lightship began a succession of pale flashes, 
then relapsed into apathy. Farther afield the Kentish Knock* 
swept the horizon with a methodical swing that drew attention 
to the isolation of its post: over in the south the Edinburgh* 
blinked like a busy star on a frosty night, holding a race with 
the Deeps,* and beating it shamefully. 

From somewhere on the schooner’s decks came a voice: 
“Dead cawlm an’ the wind south.” It added after a pause. 


^Lightships in the estuary. 


3 


4 


THE ISSUE 


as though questioning this pronouncement; stick out your 
lights — then maybe we’ll see where it is.” 

Some one yawned. 

In the silence it seemed that the river took up the sound and 
pushed it into the picture. The water swirled in oily stretches 
and fell with a rush past the cutwater: it looked up the rudder 
trunk, gurgling and full of strange anxiety; it lapped in the 
grass and slime of the bends and grew quiet, lazily quiet in its 
march to the flat, gray sea. 

A man came to the rail and hung out the sidelights — two 
small dabs of colour. The schooner now looked like a toy, 
standing on a sheet of glass and illuminated, for children to 
play with. High up amidst the shadows aloft the sails flapped 
the rigging. The sound held the echo of cheers, the clapping 
of hands, laughter. 

The river smiled at the notion of additional colour. It 
took the dabs on its brush and put them into the picture. 
Like the wax of two guttered candles, crooked and inclined to 
blob, they ran down to the margin — red, green. 

Far up the Deeps, where the shadows were grayer and less 
luminous, where sea and sky melted into one, a piercing eye 
appeared, scintillating and throwing out rays. It was as 
though a hole had been punched in the grayness and a light 
stood behind. Beneath it again were two small dabs of colour 
—green, red. A shadow lay behind all three which the water 
mimicked faithfully. 

A tall, squarely built man moved from the wheel and stared 
into the depths. He had the air of one supremely alert as he 
stood there marking the lights and watching the shadow grow- 
ing so rapidly abeam. The sails clanged in the darkness. 
Chains rattled. The mainsail fell to leeward with a slap that 
lifted the boom from its somnolence and the picture quivered 


THE LEGEND OF THE GAT 


5 


with its fall. The gleaming eyes approached swiftly in the 
form of an equilateral triangle, the apex of which was white. 
From the shadow came a dull rumbling as of a distant 
train. 

The man moved back to the wheel and rattled it down. 
‘‘Just my thunderin’ luck,” he growled; ‘‘wind nowhere, 
kites* all up and down the mast — like a yard of pumpwater.” 
Then, after a considerable pause: “Stand by to down kellickj- 
an’ some of you come aft an’ trip the luff of this flamin’ 
whanger.”:j; 

The crew shuffled to obey orders and the man resumed his 
watch. The eyes fascinated him. They appeared disdain- 
fully conscious of the power which drove them. They seemed 
to hint at the ease with which that small schooner could be 
wiped from the riverscape and blotted from remembrance. 
Again he shouted gruffly: “ Blow your horn there, some one! ” 
and remained at attention. 

A faint purr, husky and supremely inefficient, fell upon the 
silence. The shadow swerved slightly, rumbled into promi- 
nence, swept across the bow, and passed into the haze. A 
swell, trailing like a sinuous snake, followed in its wake. It 
crossed the schooner’s track and she rolled to the music of 
slammed doors. Her head strayed idly round the compass, 
she appeared profoundly disturbed by the sudden awakening; 
she brought her eyes over to examine the vanishing steamer 
and the man growled: “Manopolies . . . wage-cutters 

. . . sweaters! Lumme! if I had my way wiv you, you 

might say your prayers.” His glance fell on the crew watching 
with stolid unconcern and he shouted further instructions: 
“Let go! Drop your stays’ls on the cap. Clew up an’ give her 
forty-five when she bites.” 


♦Sails. fAnchor. fThe mainsail. 


6 


THE ISSUE 


He spoke as though he proposed giving a meal to a famished 
dog: but the men knew that no feast was in preparation. They 
crossed the deck and started a long-drawn minor shout; the 
sails clanked, fell with a rush, and the jingling note of a loosed 
cable filled the night with jets of sound. He who had set 
these wheels in motion turned on his heel and went below. 
He was the BluehelVs skipper — Saunderson. 

In select circles, at home in Abbeyville, this man was spoken 
of with some awe as Capting Saunderson; but among his 
confreres of the river he was more generally known as “Wind- 
bag.” Two years ago Abbeyville had never heard of him; 
then came a rumour which stated definitely that a “shadda” 
hung over him. But whether the shadow was fluctuating or 
permanent, visionary or substantial, none of his friends were 
decided. They appreciated the fact that the newcomer was 
a strong man, a prosperous skipper who spoke the language 
of the Thames and had saved “a tidy bit of money for those 
were points in his favour which any self-respecting community 
may be expected to accept on sight. Saunderson moved com- 
fortably in the knowledge. 

Night had fallen when he returned to the deck — a quiet 
night, dark, hazy, profoundly somnolent. The schooner’s 
lamp, hanging on the foremost swifter, shed a halo of blurred 
light across planks which were wet and black with dew. All 
around her, eyes blinked, winked, revolved — racing one against 
the other and shouting of the dangers they surveyed. Far in 
the northeast a flicker ran down the heavens; it appeared 
like a crooked wire, fused in another world. 

Saunderson halted on the edge of the companion-way, look- 
ing into the darkness. A minute circular glow of red fire, 
standing beside him, showed the outline of a man’s face, the 
tip of his nose and the marking of his brows. The skipper 


THE LEGEND OF THE GAT 


7 


approached, grumbling. “In another hoiu-,’^ he said, “it’ll 
be thick as peas-pudden and twice as nasty — a day late, too!” 

The circular patch moved in the darkness, and a voice said 
with a trill: “Arrah! give ut a rest. In another hour the 
moon will be up an’ scoffin’ ut.” 

“Pish!” said the skipper. 

The voice replied very confidently: “I know ut. You 
wait.” And again the patch glowed. 

“D’you lease this strip of sea, mate?” Saunderson ques- 
tioned with a tinge of sarcasm. “For if so, I’d thank you for 
a draught of air. Enough to shove the old Bluebell out of 
the traffic for a start.” 

Micky Doolan, the mate, sucked placidly. “There’ll be 
enough wind prisintly,” he announced, “sthill, if I had been 
masther, we would have been anchored at the head of the 
Deeps an’ not here.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because av things there’s no accountin’ for.” 

“So?” said Saunderson, in a smaller voice, “an’ what’s 
that when you’ve done wiv it?” 

“The curse av the Gat.” 

“Ah!” and again in more resolute tones: “I never heard 
of it.” 

The mate withdrew his pipe and waved it solemnly. 
“Wance,” he said, “I laid here before — an’ now, if you ask 
me, I’d give me soul-case to be out av ut.” He resumed 
smoking with the air of a man who knows of what he speaks, 
and lay back on the skylight. 

Saunderson threw a quick glance over his shoulder and 
strolling to the rail stood counting the leaping signals. Out 
of nothingness they sprang, into nothingness they retired; 
like men who fight and struggle for eminence, so they whirled 


8 


THE ISSUE 


from space, threw their lights, faded and died. He watched 
them without intention and found himself rivetted. They 
mocked at his bearing and discovered something abject in his 
questionings — ‘‘The lives of men — the lives? Chks! they 
came from nothing, into nothingness they sank.” There was 
no doubt — none. He swore it. 

Facing the darkness and in the hush of that lonely anchorage, 
with the tremor of a new thought, monstrous and ineradicable, 
he found those jerked flashes annoying. He turned to recross 
the deck and a sudden flicker sizzled down the heavens. He 
waited for the thunder, and a faint growl broke out as he re- 
sumed his seat by the mate. “ They’re playin’ bowls up there !” 
he cried. “You’re right about the wind.” 

“If it would come widout any more parleyin’, glory be! 
Amin!” the voice trilled. 

Saunderson struck a match and applied it to his pipe, ques- 
tioning with a ghost of merriment, “Why, what’s adrift wiv the 
place ? ” 

“Don’t I tell ye? Sorr, there’s iv’rythin’ against ut — 
iv’rythin’I How do I know? Glory be! didn’t I lie here 
in the Flyin^ Cloud an’ see? Tom Mace wass skipper; Dick, 
Bunny, Walt Thompson, an’ Geordie wass the crew. Whhat’s 
come av them all? Whhat’s come av the Flyird Cloud? 
Where’s a livin’ soul out av all hands — bar me?” 

For some minutes silence ensued. The mate puffed lazily 
at his pipe, nursing his knee with clasped hands. 

“You’ve always got some dawg ’eared yarn on the stocks,” 
the skipper grumbled at length; “what if they are all gone 
under? They aren’t the first, are they?” 

“No; but here there was a cause. I’m tellin’ you, moind.” 

Again there was a small interval. Micky Doolan somewhat 
ostentatiously refilled his pipe; Saunderson seemed content 


THE LEGEND OF THE GAT 


9 


to ponder on the notion which had leaped into being at his 
words. Then the Irishman’s voice came out of the stillness 
saying sturdily: “Whhat comes av the spirut av a man whin 
the breath’s gone out av him ?” 

“It don’t run to spirits in general, Micky — we mostly take 
it out in beer,” the skipper returned with a dull laugh. 

The mate took no heed. 

“D’ye think,” he resumed, “that if a man kills his wife or 
thurns her into the streets, her ghost don’t walk an’ fret him ?” 

Saunderson twisted uneasily and glanced over his shoulder 
as a vivid flash lighted the northern heavens, “If I thought 
that,” he growled out, “I’d cut me throat an’ a done wivit.” 

“Whhat for would ye do that? Played out alridy?” 

A dangerous gleam whipped into Saunderson’s eyes as the 
distant thunder rolled an accompaniment to his speech. 
“You’re right, Micky,” came the answer, moodily reverting 
to the former thesis, “but if I were in the case you speak of 
I’d see my bread buttered thick for the time that’s left. Gawd! 
a man would be a fool to go before his time — or while there’s 
honey in the pot.” 

“Honey in the pot?” the mate questioned puflGing at a pipe 
which glowed. 

“The world’s a honey pot, my son, wiv all the sweets — that’s 
the women — lyin’ in the middle. The men are the flies, an’ 
they come buzzin’ around lookin’ after the sweets. But it’s 
only the strong that get a look in. The weakly ones die and 
the strong stumble over their bodies to get at the sweets, an’ 
the sweets like them best.” 

“They say you’ve had your share av the shwates alridy,” 
Micky flashed in merriment. 

“Who in flames says that?” 

“Asy, Skip — how do I know who says ut — first, annyway?” 


lO 


THE ISSUE 


*Tf I had him here I’d twist the damned tongue out av 
him.” 

The mate withdrew his pipe and watched the skipper agape. 
Saunderson noting the look pulled himself together with a 
swift turn. “Let it slide,” he growled, “an’ if you do tumble 
across anyone wiv too much slack at the back of his tongue, 
let him know what I said — and,” he halted shuffling mentally 
for a new subject, “an’ get on wiv your Flyin' Cloud yarn. 
I knew Tom Mace years agone.” 

There was a lengthy pause during which Micky Doolan 
sucked somewhat morosely at his pipe and Saunderson, sitting 
back on the scuttle, let his thoughts fall again on the fancies 
the mate’s words had trailed before him. Haunted! Chks! 
Well — and if it came? He continued brooding over this until 
Doolan recalled him to the present. 

“Ut wass just such a noight as this,” he said, “un’ we’re 
not a mile off where the FlyirC Cloud came undher the curse — 
a mile? Whisht! less be half. 

“Two years ago, ut wass, come Chrissmus, an’ I’m sthandin’ 
at the wheel steerin’ for the Nore wid scarce enough wind to 
kape the rags aslape. The auld man comes up from below an’ 
looks about. ‘Micky,’ he says, ‘dhown kellick an’ set a watch. 
We’re makin’ no headway; we moight as well be to roost.’ 
So I dhowned kellick, gave her enough chain an’ thurned in. 
Two o’clock come along an’ I woke from me slape wid the 
feelin’ av one disgraced. I jumped up quick an’ ran out to 
see the watch. 

“The decks are white wid a thin rime av frost, the moon’s 
up, glintin’ yellow an’ sheeny through the riggin’; the san’s 
are sthill as a dead man’s heart. But the bhoy, who’s on 
watch, makes no answer to me call. 

“‘Micky, me son,’ sez I to mesilf, ‘whhat’s wrong wid the 


THE LEGEND OF THE GAT 


II 


noight? Ye’re nearer the san’s than whin ye wint below. 
Mother av God! the schooner’s adrift.’ 

“I slipped forid in the twinklin’ av an oye an’ came to the 
chain to give her more. But the chain’s gone from the wind- 
lass an’ we’re grindin’ on the edge av the san’s before I could 
belave me soight.” 

Saunderson glanced up, holding out his hand, “Any boat 
hangin’ aft when you come to, Micky?” 

“There wass; but now ut’s gone.” 

“Then the boy’s been playin’ hanky-panky, an’ has done a 
bolt.” 

“Maybe that’s so, maybe ut’s not. I’m not sayin’. I’m 
just tellin’ you the square truth, an’ I say that in the mornin’, 
whin we come up the Deeps, the boat’s lyin’ on the tail av the 
san’s an’ Geordie’s lyin’ besoide her — dead as a five-finger.”* 

Saunderson made no sign. He continued watching the 
flickering gleams springing now more generously far in the 
northeast. At length he spoke, banteringly, with the ghost 
of stilled laughter lurking in his voice. “An’ you think that 
happened because you’re lyin’ behind the Long Sands?” he 
questioned. 

“Ut happened — put ut how you will — because the Flyin^ 
Cloud’s come under the curse.” 

Saunderson made a gesture of dissent, but no words fell, 
and the mate resumed as though he had received encourage- 
ment. “How do I know?” he cried. “Why shouldn’t I 
whin I see whhat followed? Can a man see his mates all 
go from before his eyes an’ not belave? Whisht! Listen 
while I tell yez: 

“The Flyin’ Cloud came in an’ hauled ’longsoide the der- 
ruck to discharge. On the second day, Walt Tompson’s 


♦Starfish. 


12 


THE ISSUE 


sittin’ on the rail doin’ a bit av tallyin’ while I get me break- 
fast. He marks dhown maybe a dozen sthrokes, thin the gin- 
chain broke an’ he’s lyin’ undher an irron bucket loaded wid 
half a ton av diammints,* an’ whin he’s dug out we see that 
Walt Tompson had followed in the way of Geordie. 

“Two voyages later, we’re goin’ acrass the Wash, bound 
for the Humber. Ut’s a cowld noight an’ half a gale av 
wind’s a singin’ in me ears whin I relave the auld man at 
twelve o’clock. ‘Micky,’ he sez, ‘we’ve just clewed up the 
tops’l an’ Bunny’s up makin’ ut fast. Keep her good an’ full 
till he’s dhown.’ 

“An’ I kept her good an’ full an’ round as a woman’s breast 
till I heard a noise forid loike the dumpin’ av a sack av spuds. 
‘Holy sailor!’ sez I, ‘whhat are ye shlingin’ dhown on top av 
us? Go asy, ye slummer — ^you’ll be hurtin’ somewan.’ But 
there wass no answer, only a stidy flap, flap, flap av the rags 
blatterin’ aloft. So I ran forid to take a look — an’ Bunny’s 
lyin’ spread out loike a shlaughter-house sheep, dead as 
muttin’.” 

Again Saunderson rose from his seat and for a while stood 
watching the distant clouds. He faced them resolutely, grip- 
ping at the rail, and laughed. A peal of thunder rolled over 
the horizon far off, very mournful, like the roar of a distant 
cannonade. The laugh died as he returned to the skylight. 
Micky Doolan sat thoughtfully sucking his pipe. 

“That voyage began bad, but ut ended worse,” he announced 
gravely. “We loaded dhown wid harrdsf an’ came out in the 
teeth av a gale av wind. The skipper’s goin’ to make a smart 
run. Ut’s the auld woman’s birthday and Tom Mace manes 
to spend ut to home. He does spend ut to home, sure as guns. 

“Sat’day mornin’ put us dhown aff the Long-s’nd Light- 


*Coal. -j-Yorkshire hards, a quality of coal. 


THE LEGEND OF THE GAT 


13 


ship, an’ as we thurned scootin’ up the Deeps, the wind hauled 
more west till prisintly we’re jammed in the teeth av ut, goin’ 
full an’ by.* At noon there’s half a gale an’ we’ve lost mains’l, 
jib an’ stays’l. For the rest we’ve retched no further than the 
Oaze. Tom Mace comes an’ sthands besoide me at the wheel. 

“‘Micky,’ he sez, ‘we’re doin’ nothin’ undher these on- 
mintionable rags. Let us have her an’ git ready the mud- 
hook.’ So I let go an’ wint forid. Half an hour later we are 
lyin’ to anchor. Two hours more an’ we’ve parted ouir cable 
an’ ut’s blowin’ a shmokin’ gale straight dhown the river 
funnel. Be three o’clock the Flyin* Cloud’s lyin’ in the shpume 
that’s roarin’ across Gillman,f an’ Tom Mace an’ the rest av 
us are lashed in the riggin’ waitin’ for the end av thin’s. 

“But it wasn’t to be there; oh, no. For out av the smother 
comes the Sthorm Cock^ creepin’ seaward an’ lookin’ fer 
throuble. They spot us, pick us aff an’ run us up to the 
Haven.:]; But the Flyin’ Cloudy ye’ll moind, wass a mere 
scatherin’ av planks an’ spars an’ ribs av timber, lyin’ fast on 
the edge av Gillman. All the rest is shakin’s.” 

The mate puffed at his pipe and leaned back comfortably 
reminiscent. A swell sent down by a passing steamer tumbled 
the sea crashing on the sands and set the Bluebell rolling. 
Far in the darkness the sails whanged; a loose capstan bar 
clattered noisily in the scuppers. Saunderson leaped from 
his seat and stood a moment pointing, like a hound on scent, 
then, relighting his pipe, he leaned truculently against the 
skylight: “ Lumme, ” he asserted, “I’d almost forgot we’re here.” 

Micky Doolan cast up his eyes with sparrow-like vivacity 
and replied: “ Ut wass just that same forgettin’,” he announced, 
“that brought Tom Mace undher the curse. ‘Ut’s three miles 
from the Haven to Benfleet over a lonely road, an’ the skipper 


*i. e., steering by the wind. -j-A sand bank. jThames Haven. 


14 


THE ISSUE 


wass not in the mood for trampin\ ‘Ut’3 easier,’ he sez, ‘to 
go by river.’ So he, wid Dick, goes up an’ borrows a boat an* 
makes all ready to hook a stheamer that’s cornin’ up Reach. 
‘Don’t do ut, Tom,’ sez I, ‘ut’s death.’ ‘Go to blazes, Micky,’ 
sez he; ‘I’m to keep me promise wid the auld woman.’ An’ 
wid that they shove aff an’ row out av the Haven. 

“Ut’s a Scotchman that’s cornin’ tearin’ up sthrame. There’s 
enough say to tow anny boat undher; but Tom Mace an’ 
Dick have said they’ll do ut. So they row out fast to meet her. 
Prisintly Dick takes both oars an’ we see Tom standin’ to 
clear his line. 

“Mother av God! annywan could have seen how ’twould 
be — as well thry to hitch the Chatham express — as well — 
just. Ut’s dusk, ye’ll moind, an’ the Scotchman’s cornin’ 
along wid the squirm av a torpedo boat dancin’ up her sthem. 
In a minute she’s up wid them — foamin’ to the eyes. Tom 
Mace is sthandin’ in the bows ready wid his hook. Dick is 
thurnin’ the boat toward her. That’s all we see before the 
stheamer passes. 

“ ‘He can’t do ut,’ sez a chap be me soide, ‘ut’s foolishness.’ 

“‘But he has done ut,’ sez I, for at that minute the boat 
swims aft an’ we can see Tom payin’ out the line quick as 
light — an’ thin — an’ thin! Arroo! whhat’s happened? The 
end, Captin — the end. 

“ Av a sudden the boat jerks ahead wid a curl av foam about 
her. Dick shoots over the stern, an’ Tom Mace loies dhown 
loike a sick snake in the bows. He’s twistin’ — that’s plain. 
A wave av spray washes acrass them. They go out an’ back, 
loike a fish at the end av a line, an’ in that rush Tom Mace 
follows in the path av the rest, an’ Dick has gone to keep him 
company.” 

The mate fell back on the skylight and Saunderson rose. 


THE LEGEND OF THE GAT 


15 


He walked slowly up and down the deck, a dead pipe between 
his lips. He had no thought of relighting it. He lounged over 
the rail and leaning on his elbow stole a glance at his compan- 
ion. He spoke after a while with a disdainful expression: 
“Stow it, Micky, you an’ your curse. Lumme! turn over the 
page an’ give us the sequel now we’re in the humour. ” 

The mate eyed him with a quizzical glance. “ That, maybe, 
is on the road to meet ye, Captin,” he returned, “but loike 
Tom Mace, ye won’t know ut till ut’s here.” 

“Chks!” said Saunderson with an oath. “Give it a rest 
an’ come below for a taste of rum. Lumme! you want bal- 
last, mate — that’s what you want.” 

The skipper was in rollicking spirits. Apparently, too, he 
was quite unconcerned, when, towards one o’clock, a vivid 
blaze flashed through the dim cabin. Both men leaped to 
their feet. Each had taken more than a taste of rum in the 
heat of discussion, and their heads were none the clearer for 
the indulgence. 

They tumbled up the campanion to the accompaniment of 
an ear-splitting crash as the thunder rolled to the zenith. The 
schooner trembled like a train suddenly checked by the vacuum 
brake; her cable jingled in the hawse-pipe. Darkness 
shrouded her. She lay like a wounded gull, with drooping 
head and shivering wings, watching the approach of her enemy 
disconsolately from the lap of the swell. The sails bellied and 
clanged alternately. From somewhere the lightning played 
without pause, darting about, twisting, snapping, leaping. 
The sea caught the gleams. It mirrored them incessantly, 
added to them, spread them out to examine. It was as though 
the black surface, so still and profoundly impassive, were a 
giant forge whereon some Titan worked with his bellows. 

Calm, dark and very sombre it appeared as they attuned 


i6 


THE ISSUE 


their eyes to see; then a sudden and angry spirit of rain rushed 
upon them and Saunderson faced about. 

“Call the chaps out, Micky. Look slippy, my son,” he 
cried. “Aft wiv ’em! Get these flamin’ kites handed.”* 

He moved across the deck, masterful, vigilant, staring into 
the void and snapping orders. 

The squall broke. It sprang upon them with a deluge, 
stinging their faces, lashing their hands as with flicks of a 
driver’s whip. It caught the half-set canvas and the sails 
roared out in a whanging chorus. Someone shouted, “Let 
all standi” and the men drew back under the bulwarks. But 
Saunderson discovered their retreat and came forward. He 
took one by the ear and led him to the ropes. “Pull!” he 
admonished, “snug ’em up!” 

The man accepted his fate without speech. 

For half an hour the meagre crew fought and swore in the 
turmoil. They were sodden. They worked without heart. 
They knew that their efforts were futile, absurd, that they 
accomplished nothing — still, under Saunderson’s eye, they 
pulled, waiting for the squall to fail. It died as it rose, sud- 
denly, and the Bluebell was newly lighted. Little spirit fires 
crept out to mock the fading wind. They perched eerily on 
masts and yard-arms. They slithered in balls of flame up 
and down the stays and woodwork mimicking the lightning, 
mimicking the flash and revolution of those lights out there in 
the mirk — but the men took no heed. They continued pull- 
ing with the dogged persistency of a will not theirs until Saun- 
derson moved to stay them. He approached the mate with 
bent head, staring at the flickering lights, shouting, half in 
anger: “Get aft, ye blithering Irishman, an’ take the wheel. 
Avast hauling! We’re adrift. Make sail.” 


*Stow the sails. 


THE LEGEND OF THE GAT 


17 


As Doolan hastened to obey, his voice rose with new orders: 
“Loose the brails. Stays’l halliards there, one of you! Stop- 
pers off the mains’l, boy. Move around! Look slippy!” 

The crew bustled with alacrity under his eye; but in the 
confusion of tangled ropes, rain and unutterable darkness, 
only small progress had been made before the mate’s voice 
was heard. He came forward at a run, crying out: “No use — 
no use! She’s aground!” 

Saunderson gripped him by the arm. “She’s where, ye 
little cockchafer ? ” he growled. 

“On the san’s. No man will move her this side av tide 
toime — let go me arm.” 

He spoke in the confident tones of one who has prophesied 
correctly and now awaits further events in peace. He watched 
the skipper as he moved aft; saw him try the wheel; remarked 
on the fact that the rudder was jammed hard on the sands; 
watched as he came back to the mainmast and halted, ostensibly 
to give an order to the crew. But Saunderson only fumbled 
with the buttons of his coat, staring into space. 

The squall hummed faintly, far on the horizon. 

Three hours later the skipper sat alone on deck noting the 
lights which leaped and blinked on a silvered river. The 
moon was up. High water past. The Gat shimmered at his 
elbow. A curious sheen hung over all, misty, white, indefinite. 
The Bluebell no longer trembled on the edge of the sands, she 
lay where they had wharped her, comfortably afloat and 
swinging slowly to the ebb ; tide-bound, wind-bound — motion- 
less amidst the wide expanse. 

Saunderson watched her. He marked the river running in 
streaks, oily, sluggish, without a curl of foam; he saw the 
lights blinking, leaping from grave to gay and heard again 
those suggestions he found so appalling but could not shake 


i8 


THE ISSUE 


off. He admitted that they were absurd; but the notion had 
fastened upon him, his brain had grappled with it and he 
desired above all things the knowledge of men who knew; who 
could judge, who, unlike the mate, could reason this matter to 
a finality. He told himself there was something in it and 
immediately shook his head, doggedly shouting that it was 
rot. He sat back, tried to smoke, thought of sleep, thought 
of the face of a fair girl at home, in Abbeyville, but could not 
give her the attention she deserved. He banged the rail with 
his clenched fist. 

The crew slept. Micky Doolan slept. But Saunderson 
did not sleep — he watched. 

And as he sat there brooding, a steamer crawled out of the 
mists and, passing like a phantom, vanished in the sheen of 
the moon. The thud of her propeller droned in his ears. He 
looked round, but the vessel was gone. He strove to pierce 
the illusive light, seeking her shape, and found himself listen- 
ing to a cry, a cry so faint as to be almost soundless. 

He sprang to the side, intent, alert, and again it rang out — 
a commonplace hail; a thing the river is used to. Some one 
called for assistance. Saunderson, standing gripping hands 
with fear, scarcely hesitated. He told himself that some one 
was drowning and started aft at speed. 

“A man overboard! Chaps to the boat!” he cried. 
“Lively’s the word!” 

The crew slept on till Micky Doolan roused them; then 
they, too, crept on deck. But Saunderson had made no 
pause. Undeterred by their absence he clambered into the 
boat and sculled away in the track of that mist-hidden steamer. 
The men waited. 

They were still on deck and the mate smoking at the head 
of the companion when the skipper returned. He climbed 


THE LEGEND OF THE GAT 


19 


the rail, made fast the boat and faced the Gat in silence. The 
mate crossed to meet him. 

“Did ye get a soight av him?” he questioned. Saunderson 
sprang round. He stood chewing the cud of stumbling sen- 
tences; but he made no answer. 

“Thin he’s dhrowned?” said the mate. 

“Drowned? — Gawd knows.” 

“But ye saw him, Captin?” 

“I saw — Gawd! what’s that?” 

He twisted on his heel. Nothing appeared — only the Gat 
was there; the Gat and the sheen and a group of staring 
men. He hastened into the cabin. 

An hoiu: later the mate followed. Saunderson was sitting 
at the table sunk in thought. At his side was a pannikin of 
rum from which he drank at intervals. He took no notice of 
Doolan’s entrance, but he watched him, saw him light his pipe, 
pull his cap down and turn in. 

Towards daylight Saunderson’s deep voice sounded and 
the mate awoke. The skipper was leaning forward with a 
curious gleam in his sloe-black eyes. He caught the mate’s 
glance and his face twisted into a leer. 

“ Ya-as, Micky,” he cried, “maybe you’re right; but I never 
got a-nigh him. Who says I didn’t try? Lies — all lies an’ 
gibberish. Who ^could when there’s — You’re right! The 
honey-pots will be my mark for a while ” 

He had fallen into the river idiom — the river which swirled 
muddily out there, yellow in the light of the rising sun. 


CHAPTER II 


Susie Watches a Procession 


BBEYVILLE lay adrowse at the edge of the Thames. 



jr\ It stared at the river through a shimmering heat 
wave, marking the growing flood, the passing ships, the 
tugs, the barges, liners and tramps; it saw that they all 
moved onward, stole round the deep-set bay, passed the train- 
ing ships, the buoys, the long-armed jetties and disappeared 
in a golden blur at the head of the reach — it knew that London 
awaited them, that London would presently absorb them. 

Abbeyville loungers especially noted the coming of high 
tide. For hours a group of men had waited, patiently con- 
suming tobacco at the verge of the deep water pier. Their 
eyes were generally turned seaward. They said to each other, 
that unless the Conservancy hurried its fingers the schooner 
would not fetch the blocks. They bemoaned the fact that 
they had prepared them a tide too soon, sweating uselessly 
in a broiling sun; then leaning on spars and anchors, agamst 
spare buoys, timber ends and the tangled debris of a ship-yard, 
watched the smoke floating in long gray streams from tall gray 
chimneys across the water; watched the slim finger of land 
at the eastern boundary of the bay; watched the tug lying idle 
close at hand with the steam melting softly into the clear, hot 
air. They seemed to find the occupation soothing. 

Behind them Abbeyville basked in a noon-day sun. The 
people were hot and languid. Flies buzzed persistently in a 
halo about the head of an old horse trying to sleep on three 


20 


SUSIE WATCHES A PROCESSION 


21 


legs outside the High Street stores ; and crawled like nervously 
excitable currants inside the grocer’s window, sampling the 
sugar. The street was thirsty, full of dust; the men lounging 
near the smithy were thirsty also. The Abbeyville Urban Board 
had essayed to slake the streets; the Southern Trader had 
done something towards slaking the men. They spoke to- 
gether in many intonations, relating, in a strange dialect, 
dreary stories of questionable taste, until one standing on the 
verge of the wharf cried out: 

“That’s ’er.” 

Another removed his pipe, stared into the scintillating river- 
scape and said, “If it ain’t — lumme!” 

His companions seemed to consider that this settled the 
matter. They moved forward in a group and stood watching 
until a noise grew out of the stillness, and they saw that the 
tug had cast off and had commenced to slap the river with her 
paddles. She crept over the still water and made for the 
beacon on Headman’s Point — a long and lean finger of land 
jutting out from the shore at the end of the bay. A proces- 
sion stole slowly up river here. It consisted of a tug boat with 
twin black funnels towing two lopsided lighters and between 
them the angled masts of a schooner. At the main was a 
green flag carrying the symbol “Wreck” in white letters. 

Some one said, “It’s Win’bag — that’s a moral,” and a 
thinner voice falsettoed, “Win’bag — ’ooze ’ee?” 

An old graybeard spat thoughtfully over the wharf side and 
remarked with huge disdain, “’Er skipper”; then added as if 
in justification of his tone, “W’ere’s yer ’ead?” 

The falsetto said, “On me shoulders, a course.” But the 
graybeard took exception to the description. He replied very 
assertively, “Garn! it’s a cabbage. Go ’ome an’ get it biled 
fer dinner.” He turned to face the procession, muttering: 


22 


THE ISSUE 


*‘Them uz don’t know Win’bag, don’t know a man uz they 
should know. Them uz ’as lived a year in Abbeywill an’ don’t 
know Win’bag, might uz well a bin dead.” Again he resumed 
his pipe and contemplative attitude. No one resented his 
remarks. 

The twin-funnelled tug snorted laboriously round the point, 
breathing deep blobs of smoky breath; she lashed the water 
into a mill race and it fell white, crammed with bubbles, in the 
way of the lopsided trio, and the trio trod them underfoot. 
The tug which had moved from the buoy approached and 
stood on beside the wreck flag. But she did not assist, she 
watched; for no outsider must interfere with a Conservancy 
procession when the green flag is hoisted, lest there be war in 
that part of Trinity Square which loves leisurely methods. 

The men on the deep water pier observed this manoeuvre 
and commented on the PetreVs sagacity. “It’s one for Elliott; 
there’s no two ways abaht that,” said the spokesman. 

“Win’bag won’t like Elliott bein’ sent to pluck ’im in,” 
another averred; “’tain’t likely.” 

“An’ the gel watchin’ the pair of ’em from the bottom of ’er 
garding. It’s not wot you might call a bean-feast fer Win’bag.” 

“It means ’is walkin’ ticket — that’s wot it means,” added 
a lean shipwright with a long and silky moustache. “It’s 
rough on Win’bag — bloomin’ rough.” 

The graybeard sage withdrew his pipe and looked about 
him. “Fat lot Win’bag cares for the flourishin’ sack,” he 
announced. “Win’bag’s got money, ’ee ’as — ull be leader 
o’ the Rivermen’s Union yet, ’ee will. A good chap. ’Ard 
uz nails. Strong. Knows a thing or two. ’Ear ’im talk — 
it licks.” 

As no one ventured to contradict this statement he pro- 
ceeded to drive it home, “ ’Ear ’im afore you judge ’im. I 


SUSIE WATCHES A PROCESSION 


23 


say uz ^ee’ll lead. Mark that.” He subsided into the ab- 
stract gaze of a man asleep with his eyes open. 

The blacksmith approached and stood with his mate be- 
side the group. He cried out, “Socks! ” Then after a moment 
given to contemplation: “Jock, lad, blow oop t’fire. Ah^m 
lookin^ at ma fortune — ah’m goin* V be busy.” No one noticed 
him. All were intent on the procession. The sun drew 
figure-pictures in the dust, long, clear-cut lines in blue, which 
the wharf was not wide enough to finish. 

Farther down stream, nearer the ambling causeway sloping 
to cool its heels in the river, a girl stood also on watch. She 
wore a pink gown, a straw hat with a trailing black feather, 
and the air of one quietly absorbed. The sun revelled about 
her, lighting the curves, darkening the shadows, touching 
discriminately the golden hair. It threw its arms about her 
and she leaned over the garden fence undismayed, intent on 
the Stormy Petrely that paddle-wheel tug which ambled so 
circumspectly beside the procession. The girl was Susie 
Sutcliffe and she might have stood for a statue of Hebe. 

Behind her, at the end of the small garden, was her home, 
a house built of weather-boards and red brick, nearly hidden in 
the grip of a giant wistaria. All her life she had lived there. 
As a child she had played about the rose trees and syringa, had 
tended the unordered array of geraniums, pansies, fuchsias. 
She loved the garden and was happy in it. That she might 
have been happier all men were prepared to admit. But she 
was the daughter of “poor” George Sutcliffe, a coasting skip- 
per who was ruled by the wife he had taken when Susie’s mother 
died; and the home contained echoes of a voice and a bicker- 
ing tongue difficult to associate with the air of refinement 
noticeable in the girl; difficult to consider possible in sur- 
roundings so calm and full of peace. 


24 


THE ISSUE 


At the edge of the garden the river gurgled and at high water 
it lapped greedily at the fence which bordered it. Across 
the way was a lighthouse, a small iron construction standing on 
thin, straddled legs sunk in the mud. It blinked all night 
straight into Susie’s room. Below the causeway were the 
training ships, the yachts and the wide, sweeping reach ending 
in the finger of land at Deadman’s Point. Before her was the 
wide and mysterious Thames, crammed with ships, crammed 
with steamers, full of life, vast, indefinite, hazy, dim. 

It was the river which held her. As a child she had learned 
to love its voice and to know its moods. It had no terrors for 
her. Her father lived upon it — came home in the old, old 
Tantalus carrying her presents from the unpierced distance 
beyond the point. Jack Elliott lived upon it — he who now 
moved with his tug beside the procession drawing each moment 
nearer; who commanded the Stormy Petrel; who was her 
lover. 

Together, as children, these two had played upon its banks; 
together, when they were little more, they had paddled about 
the still back waters and come triumphant through childish 
perils; and together, in the more troublesome present, they 
had learned to love; learned, too, that Mrs. Sutcliffe favoured 
other ties. Now they stood in happy ignorance of incidents 
neither could foresee. 

The pictures were beautiful, the memories transcendent 
always until that strenuous voice, so cold and sharp, intervened; 
then they were tinged with gray — like the river under wintry 
skies whose distance is always mist. Saunderson caused the 
grayness — Saunderson and the voice. 

Susie leaned over the fence staring at the procession now 
approaching the head of the bight. Slowly, like an overturned 
beetle with wriggling legs, it crept behind the twin-funnelled 


SUSIE WATCHES A PROCESSION 


25 


tug, came near, and sent three spirts of steam into the blue. 
The men lounging on the deep water pier accepted this hint 
and some of them started down the narrow strip of fore- 
shore. They passed beneath the garden, growling as they 
went: 

“Might a knowed it. ’Ee’s not goin’ to risk ’is bloomin’ 
tug atwixt the buoys. That’s wot that means. An’ we’ve bin 
sweatin’ to ready the ways. Lumme! it’s thick.” 

Some one else said, “I’d give suthin’ to see Dunscombe’s 
face w’en ’ee knows.” And the old graybeard, passing stolidly 
behind, squelching through the ^mud in boots that reached his 
thighs, took up his parable. 

“Never you mind the Guv’nor’s face. Win’bag knows ’ow 
to deal wi’ ’im: mark my words.” 

They squelched onward, straggled past the pier-master’s 
hutch, climbed the causeway and became specks at the edge 
of the park; specks standing on the sea-wall, waving arms, 
catching ropes, and behaving like excitable marionettes. The 
tug with the twin funnels snorted viciously onward; swerved, 
hauled in a hawser, and left the beetle to its own devices. 

A tiny speck moved over the water heading shoreward. Susie 
knew that it was a boat carrying a line to the marionettes. 
Presently they began to walk heavily across the green and the 
beetle became dismembered. Two low, flat lighters floated 
now on even keels; the centre, the part which most resembled 
the legs of the beetle, trailed shoreward following the rope. 
Lamely and in visible disorder it assumed the shape and 
semblance of a schooner which the Stormy Petrel^ daring 
at length to intervene, came upon and pushed until she 
heeled at the edge of the bank. Then the marionettes drew 
near, tied her securely to posts and the tug flapped noisily up 
river. 


26 


THE ISSUE 


As it passed the garden a man came to the starboard paddle 
box and waved his cap. Susie took out her handkerchief and 
held it aloft. The two continued flourishing until distance 
swallowed the signals. 

The river yawned sleepily between. 


CHAPTER III 


Saunderson Seeks Advice 


WOMAN clad in black, tall and straight and acid, with 



narrow brow and deep-lined face, stood in the road- 
way viewing the people returning from chapel. Abbey- 
ville High Street meandered crookedly behind and before 
her. The setting sun tinged its length with golden 
hues; but she saw no beauty in its irregularity, no tones 
on the gabled roofs, the old red tiles and weather-beaten 
walls. She considered the stucco villas on the hill, fenced in 
behind grim iron railings and with sentinel pillars guarding 
each portal, as more adapted to her “spear”; and loathed the 
sight of her husband^s domain as inappropriate to her dignity. 

She was one of those persons who, in educated circles, are 
marked more by their antipathies than by their judgment; 
who develop a rabid and outspoken hatred of all things sane, 
and come generally to be labelled with the prefix anti. But 
Mrs. Sutcliffe’s education had been gleaned in the days of 
darkness and finished by the acerbities of barter in the small 
and dingy shop her father kept across the way. By her mar- 
riage with “Capting” Sutcliffe she had lifted herself into a 
professional spear,” but she retained her acidity, her dialect, 
and a tongue before which mankind quailed. 

It was said in Abbeyville that Mrs. Sutcliffe ‘^couldn’t look 
pleased if she wanted, nater havin’ provided contrairywise.” 
It was also said that Mrs. Sutcliffe was a “cawf-drop” the cap- 
tain could not assimilate, and the village opined that the old 


28 


THE ISSUE 


man was “blessed wiv the patience of Jove, or he’d a trundled 
her back to ’er marras.” But as that process involved the 
breaking of a tie deemed indissoluble, and the discussion of 
woes in a court of law, Mrs. Sutcliffe retained her position. 

She stood now in the village street eyeing the passers and 
waiting for Saunderson. She searched the people as they 
came out of the sun-glare and her eyes snapped. Some saw 
her, others failed altogether to respond to her grim nod and 
passed on ringing the changes of unkind criticism. In 
truth, for all her assumption of the Christian virtues, Mrs. 
Sutcliffe was an unpopular woman in Abbeyville. Her phrase- 
ology was a synthesis of the chapel she loved and the river she 
hated. Her temper had become honestly venomous with ad- 
vancing years. Religion had long ago sapped what gentleness 
had been hers and the practices of a dreary creed had 
brought her to look upon all beauty as anathema, all gaiety as 
of the devil, all charity as a guise wherein to cloak man’s 
indigence. 

She gazed out upon the world through the narrow compass 
of her chapel windows and passed a crooked judgment on all 
whose faces betokened happiness. Religious exercises had 
superseded the vigilance of her earlier household economy, and 
Sutcliffe had come within sight of a paltry ruin, a ruin all the 
more pitiful to see, because of the man’s strenuous efforts to 
eke out ways and means and keep Susie ignorant of what was 
impending. 

Mrs. Sutcliffe turned towards her home. It seemed that 
Saunderson did not intend to keep his appointment, but as 
she neared her gate the man appeared at the end of the street. 
He came from the park where the schooner lay like a toy, 
stranded at the edge of the green. Mrs. Sutcliffe moved to 
meet him and they gripped hands. 


SAUNDERSON SEEKS ADVICE 


29 


“What cheer, mother?’' the skipper asked in his deep voice, 
“and how goes Mr. Slowboy after the address? Tired, I’ll 
warrant.” 

“The Lawd giveth an’ the Lawd taketh away,” said the 
woman with but little hesitation, for she was newly equipped 
by a two-hour exercise. “I doubt Mr. Slowboy has found 
strength from ’is wrastle wi’ Satan. But ’ow’s yourself? I 
hear of troublous times; of the sinkin’ of ships an’ the drownin’ 
of the ri-chus. Is it true, my friend, or has an enemy spread 
lies?” 

Saunderson cast a look towards the toy at the foot of the 
park. “Aye,” he said, “I’ve been caught. The BluebeWs 
down the cellar — at least, that’s where she was; now she’s 
yonder.” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe reached out and laid an encouraging hand 
on the big man’s sleeve. “Thy ways are not My ways, saith 
the Lawd Gawd of ’Ostes. Let not your heart be cast down — 
it were Gawd’s will.” 

Saunderson viewed this pronouncement with some impatience. 
“I don’t know about that,” he said. “The Bluebell was good 
enough for me. I doubt if Gawd had much to do wiv it — it’s 
more the fault of a — a drunken collier.” 

“Not a sparrow falleth to the ground but wot My Father 
which is in ’Eaven seeth it,” Mrs. Sutcliffe averred in positive 
tones. “A drunken collier is a missal of the Most ’Igh, sent 
to punish us for sins we’ve committed; not,” she cumbrously 
apologised, “not that you ’ave committed them, but one of 
your crew may. For the Lawd, if so be He had intended you 
to avoid ’Is wrath, would a turned the collier inta the bank — 
even as ’Ee turned Balaam’s ass in the road over against 
Baalpeor.” 

Saunderson watched her out of narrowed eyes. He knew 


30 


THE ISSUE 


nothing of the quotation; had never heard of Balaam’s ass; 
but at the back of his mind he perceived that Mrs. Sutcliffe’s 
judgment was also the judgment of Micky Doolan, the mean- 
dering spinner of yarns which fell true. He glanced up with a 
question which might, perchance, test the matter. “Then,” 
he said, “you hold that ships don’t sink wivout Gawd’s orders ? ” 

“Never, Capting.” 

“Nor men drown?” 

“Never, Capting.” 

“An’ you believe that Gawd takes charge of every move — 
pushes men an’ women about like you or me pushes drafts on 
a checker board?” 

“There is nothin’ hid from My sight, saith the Lawd. Never 
was, never will be — world without hend — amen.” 

“An’ what happens to a man when he dies? Is he dead all 
ends up — soul, spirit — the whole caboodle ?” 

“The spirit never dies; it lives an’ moves an’ ’as a bein’.” 

“Ah, so I’ve heard.” 

“As the Spirit of Gawd moved on the face of the waters 
after the flood, so the spirits of the dead move about and keep 
watch.” 

Saunderson considered the matter a moment in silence. He 
gazed through an alleyway at the foot of which the river ran 
babbling in the dying light. It carried, according to this creed, 
on its bosom, ships that would reach harbour, ships that would 
not; crews predestined to go to Heaven, crews predestined to 
go to Hell — all at the will of God; without explanation, with- 
out preparation. Saunderson squared his shoulders and 
faced about speaking with renewed vigour. 

“What’s done’s done,” he decided. “If there’s a cause 
there’s a cause — an’ whimperin’ won’t alter it. But, it seems 
to me, that if this is the way of it, Gawd might have arranged 


SAUNDERSON SEEKS ADVICE 


31 


to let me know what I’ve done that’s wrong — an’ given me a 
chance— just a chance.” He paused a moment still staring 
at the moving river, then broke out afresh: ‘‘We aren’t saints— 
none of us. I’ve had my innings — put in better than forty 
years; but I can’t see where I’ve worked for this — this — 
Chks!” again he hung a moment in thought, then resumed on 
an entirely new issue. “You see,” he said, “the trouble is the 
BluebelVs not finished. She’s been picked up, towed home, 
an’ will have to go on the ways. Now if I had lost her clean 
the boot would have been on the other leg. The Guv’nor 
wouldn’t have kicked up nasty, for the schooner’s done her 
time. It might have been worth twenty pound to me; but 
now,” Saunderson snapped his fingers, “now it’s worth about 
that.” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe sighed. “It’s a wicked, thankless world, 
Capting, an’ the ways of the rich is percurious.” 

“It’s a world cram jam full of manopolies,” he returned 
with some heat. “Steamers is manopolies. They fair get my 
hair out of curl. They think the river is built for them an’ 
no one else has a right to be afloat. Lumme! there’s a day 
coming when I’ll show them a thing or two — steamship owners, 
factory owners — chks! sweaters of the poor I [call them, wiv 
their wage cuttin’ an’ their machinery an’ what not. Wait a 
bit. You’ll see.” 

He walked truculently beside her until they reached the gate 
and Mrs. Sutcliffe halted with her finger on the latch. “You’ll 
do great things,” she replied. “ My heart goes out in synthapy 
to you; but you’ll step in. The gell’s there.” 

“Not much use — how is she?” He hesitated. 

“As well as can be expected of any gell as wastes ’er time 
readin’ books an’ holds aloof from the Lawd’s ’ouse.” 

As Saunderson made no rejoinder she added after a pause: 


32 


THE ISSUE 


“It^s time some good man took ’er in hand, Capting — that’s 
wot I think.” 

“She’s a good scholar,” he returned, “what I’m not. What 
I’d give my earnings to be, now, every stiver.” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe watched him with flickering eyes. She had 
no mind to allow this matter to drag; but that Susie should be 
praised was too much for her equanimity. She cried out: 
“An’ aren’t you ’er match in a thousand ways? In book 
learnin’ Susie may know more — does, I doubt; but wot good 
’as it done ’er? Where’s she the better for the vicar’s ’elp? 
He took her in ’and — ‘she’s clever,’ ’ee says to himself; ‘I’ll 
putt ’er through the mill, an’ we can get ’er cheap for the 
schools,’ ’ee thinks. So ’ee putt ’er through an’ she’s assistant 
mistress now — ^got ’er place a fortnight ago. ’Ee’d better a 
left ’er to assist ’er mother. ’Ee’s proselyted ’er out of the 
chapel an’ made ’er a candle for the church. Presently, when 
she’s done ’er turn, out she’ll go, an’ I ast you, wot’s to come of 
’er then. She’ll be old. Capting, why don’t you take ’er in 
’and to once?” 

Saunderson’s dark face grew flushed, but he stammered 
like one ashamed: “She won’t look at me — won’t look at me. 
It’s Elliott she wants.” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe sniffed her contempt. She turned on him 
with an expressive gesture. “A man,” she announced grimly, 
“ can always make a way. You want her. You aren’t easily 
put aside. Elliott’s nobody. Say so.” 

He smote his hands together crying out almost fiercely; “I 
love her. I’d give my soul to win her. I’d give my chances 
of bein’ head of the Union — a thing I’m near. I’d give all I 
have — all; but she loves Elliott — sees no one else. I’m not 
in the same street with him — what can a man do ?” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe advanced a step and laid her hand on his arm. 


SAUNDERSON SEEKS ADVICE 


33 


*‘She doesn’t care more for him than you,” she averred; “it’s 
a toss up which she takes. A maid always plays her fish — 
why shouldn’t she? Besides Elliott’s a fool an’ doesn’t mean 
marryin’, if you ask me. You ’old the key, too. I put it in 
your ’and long since. If you’re so keen set why don’t you 
use it.” 

Saunderson breathed hard. The suggestion opened a new 
heaven to him. He had no idea that he had so staunch an 
ally; but the woman’s words left no misapprehension in his 
mind. He replied eagerly, “I will use it. If you’ll help me, 
I will use it.” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe gripped him by the hand. “I’ll help you,” 
she whispered. “I’ll make her throw up Elliott — ah’ if she 
won’t I’ll make her so as she’ll be glad to take any man’s ’and 
that’s offered — it’s fer you to do the rest.” 

Saunderson smiled. “It’s a pity there aren’t more of your 
sort, mother,” he said. “It would ease things mightily in 
this weary world.” 

She turned to him with a dolorous inflection. “You’ve 
’ad your troubles, Capting, I doubt. But Gawd’s mercy is on 
them as fear ’Im, an’ the gell will make you forget wot’s gone 
before.” 

This latter she put in as an afterthought; then with a sigh 
of infinite regret for the wickedness of mankind, she entered 
the garden. 

Saunderson latched the gate. 

Viewed superficially there was no great divergence in the 
appearance of these two men. Both were tall and strong, 
both were bronzed, both spoke the language of the Thames — 
but here analogy ends, for of them Elliott was impulsive, 


34 


THE ISSUE 


generous, and hot-tempered, while Saunderson was vindictive, 
brooding, savage. Elliott young and plastic, Saunderson a 
man of opinions, a man well advanced in the forties. 

A glance into the strong face of this Regenerator of the 
Masses would have revealed to the physiognomist a singularly 
flaccid mouth and powerful jaw. Criticism would have pointed 
with disdainful finger to the fact that the straight brow was 
counteracted by sensuous lips and a head overweighted at the 
base of the skull. Suggestions would have crept in: possi- 
bilities by a turn of the pen would have become actualities, 
and Saunderson would have found himself written down 
“dangerous.” 

It was the face and head of a strong and brainy man of 
meagre education; of one who watched the social problems 
through the narrow glass of ignorance; who recognised the 
misery of the crowded alleys, the luxury of the mansions; who 
saw the unequal distribution of wealth and knew, by personal 
contact, of the grinding and sweating by which men grow rich. 
But, on the other hand, he knew nothing of the methods by 
which these problems may be attacked; knew only that it was 
what he called “ Gawd’s truth,” and set himself to arrange 
“the anomalies” in his own crude fashion. 

His eloquence had gained him the name of Windbag along 
the river side, which was in itself a tribute to the intelligence 
of his friends. Indeed the man had earned it. For a worker 
was never dismissed, wages never fell, nor was there ever a 
strike or paltry labour trouble of any kind, but he championed 
“the cause” and preached the doctrine of communism with 
the fervent heat of one of nature’s orators. 

With less education he would have grovelled contentedly in 
the ruck of his tribe; with more he would have made a powerful 
thinker, preacher, or leader — for, with education and sys- 


SAUNDERSON SEEKS ADVICE 


35 


tematic drill, that lack of self-control, which was his bane, 
would have disappeared and left him to a life of commonplace 
aims. 

It was Saunderson’s fate continually to run his head against 
a brick wall. He knew that the wall was there and had some 
notion of its quality; but he had not sufficient wisdom to attack 
it with diplomacy. What learning he had simply tended to 
exasperate him with the conditions in which he moved. He 
had lived hard and struggled to save. He desired to learn, but 
passion stood in his path. His ambition was to lead a winning 
fight against the masters, and nothing had come to soften him 
till Susie crossed his path. And at this time, when he was 
halting, perhaps for the first time, on the verge of better things; 
when the contagion of the girPs more refined nature bade him 
live higher if he would compete for her affections; then, in that 
hour, came the disastrous passage from the Gat. 

Most men would have thrown the whole incident to the 
winds; but in Saunderson’s mind the memory grew like a 
festering wound until it permeated his whole being. His 
slipshod knowledge, his haunting dread of things unseen, the 
rapidity with which this thing had come upon him, hot on 
the heels of the story, all conspired to place it in the forefront. 

The Bluebell had come under the curse. She was “down 
the cellar.’’ Micky Doolan had foreseen this thing. These 
were the facts which appeared. 


CHAPTER IV 


Mrs. Sutcliffe Deals the Cards 

M rs. SUTCLIFFE stood at the door of her house. 

She expected Susie and waited for her, hot with 
the memory of her talk with that protdg^ of hers, 
Saunderson. Susie should have been at home. It was an 
opportunity. Mrs. Sutcliffe said so with thin lips as she 
searched the roadway. 

For days scarcely a sentence had passed between these two. 
The long series of bickerings had culminated in a sort of 
armed truce; neither would give way an inch. It was a posi- 
tion which had grown out of small and inconsiderable begin- 
nings. The difference in their ages, the bitterness engendered 
by the fact that Susie was her husband’s child, not hers, the 
affection the old man lavished on his daughter — all tended 
to sharpen the hostility which had existed from the earliest 
days of their companionship. Susie was educated, Mrs. 
Sutcliffe was not; Susie was guarded by the church on the hill, 
Mrs. Sutcliffe was a follower of “Passon Slowboy” and wor- 
shipped at a Bethel; Susie had no household duties to per- 
form, Mrs. Sutcliffe told herself she had enough and to spare. 
She said too, when presently she perceived a trim form moving 
down the street, that the ‘‘gell’s” defiant and rather super- 
cilious manner was insufferable. 

She found no grace in the easy pose of that tall young 
figure, no beauty in the gentle curves and dainty habili- 
ments — the latter she averred belonged indubitably to the 

36 


MRS. SUTCLIFFE DEALS THE CARDS 


37 


devil; the rest, as far as she could see, was well on the road 
thither. 

Susie entered the garden, latched the gate, and passed into 
the kitchen. Mrs. Sutcliffe followed, speaking acridly. 

“W’en I was a gell,’’ she announced, “I dusn’t flounce past 
me mother as though she’s dirt. I’d a got as comfortable a 
spankin’ as ’ere or there a one — an’ small blame to ’em for 
lickin’ me. I were trained to treat me mother with respect — 
’adn’t any father or passon to take me part. That’s ’ow I 
were brought up.” 

Susie watched the narrow anger-laden eyes with com- 
plete indifference and continued to unpin her hat without re- 
mark. 

“Nothin’ excuses insalence to gray ’airs,” Mrs. Sutcliffe 
continued aggressively. “Nothin’ is more contrairy to the 
teachin’ of Gawd’s ’Oly Book — ast the Reverend Mister 
Hoakley if so be you doubt my words. I’m speakin’ to you. 
Miss,” she added pointedly. 

Susie looked over her. For the moment she appeared to be 
engaged in studying the ceiling, but she said, “That, surely, 
requires no explanation: well?” 

“It’s eddication that’s done it,” Mrs. Sutcliffe resumed with 
mournful resignation; “if father ’ad done ’is dooty by me, it 
isn’t the wickerage that ’ud ’av ’ad the benefit of yer hours of 
idleness, nor the schools, but me that’s workin’ me fingers to 
the blessed bone to keep you in vittals. You’re too good fer 
the likes of us; it’s time you were married.” 

“Judging from what one sees,” Susie returned with a laugh, 
“marriage is not always an Eldorado.” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe paused, sniffing at the simile. Suspicion 
stood large in her eyes. “Whom the Lawd joineth together 
let no man thrust assender,” she answered, vaguely conscious 


38 


THE ISSUE 


that the girl was sneering at her, and taking shelter, as was her 
wont, in biblical quotation. 

“Thanks,’’ said Susie cheerfully. “I’m in no hurry. Some 
day perhaps.” 

“Give me a man,” Mrs. Sutcliffe broke in pointedly, ^^as 
’as steadied down an’ is able to make a home for a gell wivout 
any long-winded walkin’s-out — for with years cometh discre- 
tion, saith the Lawd Gawd of ’Ostes.” 

“With years also come ague, rheumatism, and many other 
things,” said Susie. “Indeed I prefer youth to age. You did, 
I expect, when you were a girl.” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe’s face showed that she understood to 
a nicety this remark. Her voice when next she spoke 
rang sharply didactic; but she avoided the point at issue. 
“A gell should seek guidance of the Lawd an’ of her 
mother,” she cried, “an’ I say, as I’ve said before, give 
me a man that’s sowed ’is boats an’ will settle down com- 
ferable. That’s the man fer my money an’ you won’t set 
eyes on a steadier, more Gawd-fearin’ Christian man than 
Capting Saundisson.” 

“Saunderson!” Susie returned with a slight accent on the 
name, “you misjudge him, surely; besides, I could not marry 
him.” 

“W’y not. Miss Pert — ain’t ’ee good enough fer you?” 

“Oh, yes — he is too good.” 

“I should like to a seen the man I thought too good fer me 
at your age,” came the answer with a sniff of derision. 

The girl turned round with sudden earnestness. “You 
don’t want me to marry a man I hate, do you? I hate Jim 
Saunderson and I love Jack. When he is ready I will go away 
and not trouble you with my presence; but to your friend, I 
will give nothing — only hate.” 


MRS. SUTCLIFFE DEALS THE CARDS 


39 


“You can give him what you like/’ the other sneered, “ w’en 
you’ve married him.” 

Susie took no notice. She attempted to pass, but Mrs. 
Sutcliffe barred the way. “An’ as fer that Jack Elliott,” 
she asserted leaning forward, hands on hips, “it’s my belief 
’ee don’t mean marryin’.” 

“That isn’t true and you know it.” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe came nearer. “I know more than that about 
’im,” she cried out, then paused watching the girl through 
narrow eyes. Again, with a burst of candour; “Susie, lissen 
to me. There’s no room fer you an’ me in this ’ouse. You 
are yer father’s gell, not mine; but I’m ’is wife an’ I mean to 
stay. Very well; there’s two chaps danglin’ after you. One’s 
a fool wiv more than one maid at ’is ’eels, with no money, an’ 
p’raps a year or more of waitin’ before ’im. The other’s a 
man, money in ’and, all ready to take you over. You choose 
the man, me gell, an’ I’m your friend fer life; choose the other 
an’ we part. That’s straight an’ so you understand.” 

Susie made no reply. The suggestion seemed to strike her 
as ludicrous. “Enemy for life!” she cried. “What else have 
you always been? I love Jack. I am his. I will never 
marry another.” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe’s eyes took a derisive gleam. She threw back 
her head and again her arms were akimbo. “Bless my soul!” 
she broke out, “Lissen to it then. La, lissen to it! Lawd!” 
she continued brutally and with a sudden change of manner, 
“you’d best be chary wot you give to any man, me gell, ontil 
you’ve got the ring on yer finger.” 

Susie made no response. She stood staring into the vin- 
dictive eyes, marking the narrow brow, the thin, set lips, and 
wondering when she would be in a position to refute these 
statements, all so unjust to her lover. But Mrs. Sutcliffe was 


40 


THE ISSUE 


concerned more with her own than with Susie’s thoughts and 
speculations. And again came the stinging voice, grimly 
breaking the silence. 

^‘Aye,” it said, “fer gells as give theirselves away wi’out the 
’elp of the passon, is app to get left wi’ nothin’ else to give away 
— ’cept, maybe, the baby.” 

Susie flushed hotly and caught up her hat. She left the 
house without further speech, her ears tingling, her eyes aflame. 
She would never argue again. She hated herself for having 
done so now. She felt the uselessness of explanation with 
one whose sole weapon was a venomous tongue, backed by 
abuse of the only man on earth, her lover. 

She came to the park. Here at least there would be peace. 
Here, in the solemn evening, she could watch the flashing wave- 
lets and speculate on the interminable fleet passing up the 
short reach. Here, too, she could picture Jack’s surroundings 
and wait for his coming. If her father had been at home she 
would have gone to him and sobbed out her trouble on his 
kindly breast. But her father was away. Jack was away. 
There remained no one with whom she could consult. 

The park at Abbeyville is a beautiful spot without the vestige 
of resemblance to any park extant. It is a natural wilderness, 
lying at the river side, consisting of a stretch of meadow, some 
beaten tracks, a cluster or so of gigantic beech, and here and 
there a rambling patch of gorse. 

On the one hand clustered the village, red-tiled and pictur- 
esque; on the other, chalk cuttings clothed in valerian and par- 
tially hidden by the trees and shrubs. In the background 
sheltered by the high white cliffs and nestling amidst a forest 
of elms, stood the manor, a fine old country house slowly dying 
before the advancing factories. In front the river. 

For an hour Susie sat on the bank watching the moving 


MRS. SUTCLIFFE DEALS THE CARDS 


41 


shipping. It was nearly seven o’clock and a golden autumn sun 
setting behind the blue haze at the top of the reach. Out 
there, indistinct with the blur of coming night, lay the forest of 
masts and hulls without which Abbeyville never seemed com- 
plete. At wide intervals the hum of a distant horn mingled 
with the brisk cries of the boys playing on the training ships. 

Susie leaned against an upturned boat watching the glowing 
scene. Among those sights and sounds she had lived her life. 
Here under Jack’s guidance she had learned the difference 
between a schooner and a brig, between a fog horn bellowing 
mournfully on a hazy night and a steamer waking the echoes 
for a pilot. Here she had laughed and played and learned to 
love; and here, especially at the quiet hour of sunset, she 
often roamed when Jack was away, dreaming dreams and 
seeing visions of an impossible future — for the life of sordid 
Methodist cant which struck her so keenly at home, taught 
her also to reach after that perfect and ideal love which the 
Virginias of these pushful days usually find illusive. 

A boat crossed her line of vision coming from the group of 
shipping, lying off the jetty. Susie did not notice it, yet she 
was intent on the picture spread before her. Half an hour 
passed. The sun went down and the sky blazed with fiery 
splashes. The glare sank into the girl’s heart. She had for- 
gotten her anger, she had forgotten her surroundings, her soul 
went out across the waters with the cry of a wounded bird: 

‘‘Jack! Oh, Jack, come and take me to you!” 

She rose from her seat and turned to go home, and there, 
almost at her feet stood her lover. In a moment, with a cry 
of absolute joy, she was in his arms, her face surrendered to 
his kisses. 

“Oh, my darling!” she whispered breathless. 

“My little girl!” 


42 


THE ISSUE 


“ Jack, Jack, you must not go away — ^you must not. ” 

He held her from him, seeking her eyes, while she as strongly 
strove to hide them. 

‘T won^t, Susie; not till you come with me.” 

She turned to face him now, her lips quivering, her eyes 
bright with tears. ‘‘Jack!” she faltered and fell into silence. 

“Susie!” he mocked, laughing. But she crept into his arms 
and clung there shivering, while he, ignorant of her trouble, 
explained in his firm young voice: 

“It’s true, Susie! I’ve come back to settle it. We can be 
married whenever you say the word. How does it happen 
so suddenly? Because I’m in luck. Tumbled across a god- 
send last trip and Dunscombe’s as pleased as Punch.” 

She raised her head and looked at him, forgetful of her tear- 
stained face, forgetful of her trouble, swiftly thrilling with the 
hope his words had given her. 

“You’ve been crying, lass,” he remarked, examining her 
eyes. 

“I didn’t see you coming. Jack,” she evaded. 

“But your weren’t crying about that?” 

“No, Jack.” 

“Then what was it?” 

She turned to him with a gust of passion. “ Dear, it is every- 
thing — everything. I’m promised to you. Mother knows it, 
but she insists I am to marry Saunderson — Saunderson, her 
‘Chrischun Gawd-fearer’ whom she loves.” 

“Chut!” he frowned, “we’ve heard that before. Not quite 
so plain, perhaps, but it’s been there and I’ve seen it. Well, 
what does she think I am? Does she suppose I’m going to 
stand by and watch him take you? Does she suppose I’ve 
played the waiting game for fun? Can’t she understand I 
wanted to find you something better than a room at the top of 


MRS. SUTCLIFFE DEALS THE CARDS 


43 


Panter’s Court, maybe? The Lord look sideways on her for 
a canting hypocrite. I have no patience with her, and she’ll 
know it.” 

“Jack, Jack!” she urged rushing in to stay the storm, “don’t 
heed her. I would not have told you but — but ” 

“Yes, I know. She just bullies the life out of you, like she 
has the old man. Well, we’ll stop it. We need not wait now. 
It shall end.” 

He spoke with the strength born of his sudden accession to 
wealth which might perhaps run to one hundred pounds, per- 
haps sink to fifty, a paltry sum on which to risk the expenses 
of matrimony in some circles, but in his, a fortune. Susie 
glanced in his face as she noted the change. 

“Yes, dear,” she replied, “it must end.” 

“When?” 

“When, when — oh. Jack, when you will.” 

Then fell a silence; a silence as deep as that which had 
lasted while the sun sank in the haze; a silence filled with 
passionate caresses as they stood with strained arms, breast to 
breast, lip to lip on the high sea wall. 

The crimson glare had faded from the higher horizon. 
Low amidst the blur and smoke of London, a bloody streak 
paled. Night was marching across the winding reaches and 
in place of the sun-tinged wavelets, lay a wide expanse of cold, 
gray water. 

The two stood there, quietly reading each other’s faces. 
The one, pale under the tan; the other crimson and with flash- 
ing eyes, eyes that entreated, begged for peace and happiness. 
Arms linked, they climbed slowly from the sea wall to find it. 
They skirted the grass and came to the back of the park where 
a hillock rose, a knoll crowned with trees and fringed with 
walls of blackthorn. This was the Spinney. At the summit 


44 


THE ISSUE 


the ground sank into a minature dell and the bushes ran riot 
amidst a tangled network of roots and grass and bracken. It 
was a place consecrated in their memory by many an hour of 
happiness. Here Jack had fashioned a bower for his sweet- 
heart; here, not long ago, he had built a rustic seat for the girl 
who was to be his wife when fortune smiled; and here, in the 
stillness of that river-girt wild, the two came once more to 
whisper and to dream. 

In glimpses, through the trees, they could see the sheeny 
water and catch hints of the moving shipping; but the 
man heeded nothing of this. The business of his life lay 
face to face with nature. He had watched it in so many 
guises — through rain and snow, hail and sleet, with the pon- 
derous accompaniment of heavy boots, oilskins, and wet necks, 
and had, in the course of time, been disillusioned. Besides, 
the matter in hand was love, and when a man discusses mat- 
rimony, the maiden’s eyes act as loadstones and all outside 
influences are forgotten. Which is as it should be, even in a 
world so prosaic that pounds sterling stand for a man’s worth, 
and the amount of a girl’s dowry as a signal to the multitude of 
her chances. 

So they found seats among the trees and the girl’s head 
rested on the man’s shoulder. Love throbbed in the heart of 
each — love and forgetfulness; the present, present; the future, 
nowhere. Sometimes they talked, softly, as lovers talk; some- 
times they remained in silence, and perhaps the silence was 
the more eloquent of the twain. 

It is possible to say so much without speech in the fields; 
it is possible to beg, to plead and gain acquiescence with the 
eyes alone when a cleft in the rocks is our resting-place and 
the sea moans at our feet. And in these dim reaches, far down 
by the estuary, the voice of the sea is never entirely absent. 


MRS. SUTCLIFFE DEALS THE CARDS 


45 


The river has broadened. The tides come up. They sing 
the same song on the foreshore, the ripples break in the same 
fine curve, whispering, tempting, wooing — and the river folk 
know the moods. 

To-night it wooed. A soft south wind stirred the branches 
overhead, but the bracken was still. The rooks slept without 
fear high up there where the stars peeped. The denizens of 
bush and cranny, grass and burrow moved about the affairs 
of life silent as the stars, cautiously as a field mouse standing 
sniffing on the threshold of home. And the man and the girl 
rested together without speech. 

Heaven is a great silence; love is akin to it. We may, per- 
haps, never quite understand heaven, but love we may always 
understand. Not the love, you comprehend, of madame who 
has bartered her beauty for a consideration in diamonds; but 
the love of a girl and a man of the people unstained by life in 
a city. Nature speaks here in spite of the cynics. It speaks 
in spite of laws and conventions; in spite of trouble, pain or 
suffering. The girl looks up and takes the man’s kisses; the 
man looks down and vows eternal constancy, eternal watch- 
fulness — man, of whom on earth there is nothing more unstable 
or more careless of the future. 

A storm lies brooding on the horizon — it is unworthy of 
consideration, “a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand.” The 
archives are dark with portent. The police courts speak elo- 
quently of this or that futility. Mrs. Stogers has black eyes 
at the hand of her husband — eyes which once he praised for 
their beauty. Nell, formerly the belle of the village, is now 
mother of ten dirty-faced children and is glad of “goes of gin” 
to pass the time; but who sees these things? or who, at all 
events, heeds them? 

Not a man sitting among the trees with a girl’s head resting 


46 


THE ISSUE 


on his shoulder. Not a girl held in his embrace, a slim, young 
girl who trusts him and finds him worthy to be king. 

There were little rifts of talk between these two; bursts of 
exultation from Jack whose prowess in that matter of salvage 
would not go unrewarded; a note or two of plans, desires — all 
interspersed with kisses. Speed was the necessity from Jack’s 
point of view. He aimed to put a stop to ‘'these worries,” 
by “going to Riverton to-morrow to stand before the registrar,” 
but Susie held back here. She wished to be married properly, 
from church. Marriage in a registry office was not marriage 
at all, and besides, she desired Mr. Oakley to tie the bond and 
her father was necessary to render the ceremony complete. 
It would take three weeks at least, she decided. 

Jack argued quite sanely, in the face of existing events, that 
it was absurd to wait and that Susie courted trouble by doing 
so. “Why not cut the church and have done with it?” he 
questioned relevantly. “There’s no knowing what mischief 
that mother of yours will be up to, and there’s Saunderson, 
too — come, Susie,” he urged, “look at things straight and 
never mind the church.” 

But the girl only shook her head and clung more closely to 
her lover. “Dear,” she whispered, “let me have my way in 
this. I have set my heart on it and I don’t care a straw 
for mother now, or for Saunderson.” She lifted her lips to 
his as she spoke and the starlight showed them soft and 
carmine. 

Wffiat could a man do in such a case? Wffiat would most 
men do? He might kiss the lips and say nothing, or, if he 
were wise and old and had experience, possibly he might argue, 
if only to prolong a situation so beautifully stirring; but Jack 
was unversed in the wiles of experience. He felt the girl 
clinging to him, heard that she begged, saw her eyes soft and 


MRS. SUTCLIFFE DEALS THE CARDS 


47 


pleading and answered after his kind, **God love you, lass; I’d 
do more than that to see you happy.” 

An hour passed; they still sat amidst the trees, arms twined 
and at rest. A woman crept from the path out there in the 
dusk and stood watching — they made no sign of having seen 
her. Twigs snapped beneath her feet as she moved away — 
they did not hear. 

The river at rest. Nature at rest. Night with its veil 
drawn screening youth from the world of men; night with a 
soft south wind to fan faces foolishly heated; then a bell on 
the training ship giving out four strokes and Susie on her feet. 

“Four bells. Jack — what’s that?” 

And the man still reclining. “ Ten o ’clock, lass — ^why ? ” 

“Oh, my dear, my dear, I ought to be at home.” 

“Soon,” came the deeper voice as Jack stood now and drew 
her to him, “soon you’ll have no home but mine. God love 
you! Yes, I know. It’s my fault. Come.” 


CHAPTER V 


And Plays Her Hand 

A KISS for watchfulness, a kiss for guardianship, a kiss 
for remembrance — these were the seals set by Elliott 
on the girPs sweet face as he left her at the park gates. 
She was late — what did it matter? She had Jack’s love. 
There would be a scene — well, let it come. She could face it 
smiling and in silence at the thought of the kisses. Jack loved 
another? What nonsense. Had it not all been explained. 
Was he not even now on his way to the vicar to arrange for 
their wedding? 

The lightness of Susie’s step as she skipped up the street 
was proof of her serenity at this moment; but before she had 
traversed half the distance, there came a pause so sudden that 
it appeared she intended to return. Still she did not return. 
She halted, shrinking into the shadow of the wall. 

There are some figures which it is quite impossible to mistake. 
In twilight, in dusk or dwarfed by distance, they stand out 
for the men they are. Saunderson was one of this type. Tall, 
strong, with a decided walk and alert pose, the man was rec- 
ognisable at once — and he issued now from George Sutcliffe’s 
cottage to stand a moment gazing down the street. Whether 
he saw her Susie never knew, but she decided at once that, 
if he came towards the park, she must meet him. She was 
not afraid and would not run away. She would meet him. 
As it happened, however, the big man did not come towards 
her but moved in the opposite direction — perhaps, as the girl 

48 


AND PLAYS HER HAND 


49 


smilingly acknowledged, to the bar of the Southern Trader. 
Susie was aware of the attraction lying dormant within those 
walls, and at the moment the feeling uppermost in her mind 
was one of thankfulness. 

The man’s figure being presently hidden by a turn of the 
street, Susie resumed her way. She came to her home won- 
dering what new plotting had brought Saunderson there at 
such an hour, and discovered with a little throb of anxiety 
that the windows were already shuttered for the night and 
the house in darkness. 

The signs were ominous. Coupled with Saunderson’s 
recent presence they suggested trouble; but Susie came to the 
steps and after some small indecision, knocked boldly for 
admittance. Some minutes passed in silence, then came the 
sound of shuffling feet, a bolt was drawn, and Mrs. Sutcliffe 
appeared in the doorway. 

At the far end of the passage Susie discovered a lighted lamp 
standing on the kitchen table. Beside it a Bible, Mrs. Sut- 
cliffe’s Bible, open and placed ostentatiously in view. The 
girl knew by experience what this boded. She stepped within 
and attempted to pass. Mrs. Sutcliffe blocked the way, her 
face giving indications of the question which presently escaped 
her thin, harsh lips: 

‘‘Wheer hev you bin?” 

^‘Out for a walk.” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe stood quite still. She lifted her eyes to the 
dim ceiling and said: “Haigh! ’Ow long, O Lawd, ’ow 
long!” 

“You make home so pleasant for me,” Susie explained, 
“that I am glad to be away.” 

She attempted to pass into the kitchen, but again Mrs. Sut- 
cliffe barred the way. 


50 


THE ISSUE 


“Stand back!” she cried, “an’ tell me wheer you’ve bin, 
Miss Pert.” Then, as Susie refused to reply, the voice fell 
once more into the dismal and canting tones so familiar in 
that household, “or,” she said, “there’s no need fer lies — 
fer went not my soul wiv thee?” 

There was an ugly gleam in the woman’s eyes, a suggestion 
of triumph, and Susie instantly decided that her mother had 
seen her, perhaps watched her in the Spinney. The suspi- 
cion became a certainty on examination, for Mrs. Sutcliffe’s 
eyes gave her away. The meanness of the action set the girl’s 
pulses tingling. 

“Your soul!” she hazarded, “I don’t believe you have one. 
It’s much more likely you’ve been spying.” 

The retort went home, and Mrs. Sutcliffe acknowledged it 
in a phrase. “ A guilty consence,” she said, “ needs no ekuser.” 

“Which is the reason you can’t look me in the face, I sup- 
pose ? ” 

“Don’t you give me any of your lip, me gell. If I was 
’appening to pass the Spinney an’ ’eard voices as turned me 
aside, it isn’t fer you to say I were spyin’. Wot were you doin’ 
in the Spinney?” 

“I was talking to Jack.” 

This time an opening appeared and Mrs. Sutcliffe speedily 
availed herself of the opportunity. “Decent gells don’t lie 
in young men’s arms,” she gave out with a dreary sneer. 

“I am engaged to Jack. He is my promised husband— he 
has a right to ” 

“Any one seein’ you would a said ’ee were your ’usband,” 
Mrs. Sutcliffe interrupted with biting emphasis, “only that 
p’raps ’ee were a trifle too fond.” 

Susie turned to hide her face. A wave of anger and morti- 
fication swept over her. “Oh, Jack, Jack!” she cried. Then 


AND PLAYS HER HAND 


51 


with a swift acknowledgment of her hurts: ‘*Let me pass, 
woman. I wish to go to my room.” 

‘‘Your room?” came the reply, satirically twisted. “Lawd! 
wheer’s that ? ” and again with an accent which admitted of no 
guesswork. “Your room? You hev no room. There’s no 
room ’ere for the likes of you.” 

The words were very distinct, the inference abominable, 
yet Susie scarcely comprehended, even now, the length to 
which this woman was prepared to go. She stood as one too 
much astonished for speech, and the other expatiated on the 
fact, hammering it home. 

“You don’t seem to understand,” said Mrs. Sutcliffe, her 
arms thrust out in explanation. “I say you ’av no room. I 
say my house shall not be contiminated by your goin’s on any 
longer. I say that unless you like to marry Saunderson I’ll ” 

“Oh, you dare not — you dare not!” Susie cried out. “You 
know it isn’t true. Let me pass!” 

“I know wot I saw, me gell,” came grimly from the thin lips. 

“It is not true,” Susie wailed. “I say it is not true.” 

“The face of the Lawd is against all them as do evil. I 
will ’av no pawt in thy wickedness, saith the Lawd.” 

“If you believe that you will let me pass. I swear I have 
done no wickedness. Jack is ” 

“Keep ’is name out of it.” 

“ We are to be married — it is impossible.” 

“Married are you — well, now you look at wot I say, fer 
it’s the lawst word — see?” She ticked off the points on her 
fingers; speaking acidly: “You’ll give me your promise not 
to see that man again. You’ll give me your promise to throw 
’im over. You’ll give me your promise to marry Jim Saunder- 
son, an’,” she added with grim accentuation, “if you don’t, 
out you go.” 


THE ISSUE 


52 


Susie was pale now, pale with strangely drawn eyes. Her 
brain took in what was expected of her in so far that she under- 
stood what was said; but beyond that it refused to register. 
It seemed impossible to i... we that the woman meant precisely 
what she said. It seemed impossible that any one would carry 
out threats so irrational and in the face of such flimsy evidence. 
To turn a young girl from her home at any hour and for any 
reason is monstrous, but at night it is criminal. Susie refused 
to believe in this nightmare. She had come home prepared 
for trouble, but scarcely for this; she had come home perhaps 
a little defiant, but she had not dreamed of this. She had 
spoken hastily. It was a mistake. She turned to her step- 
mother to acknowledge it. “I am sorry I have angered 
you and kept you up,” she said. “I did not mean to. 
I forgot the time. Jack has had some luck and we had to 
discuss ” 

‘T’m waitin’ fer that promise I spoke of,” the cold voice 
interrupted. ‘‘Give it, or ” 

“I can’t give it. Could you give it if you were in my 
place ? ” 

“That’s not the point.” 

“I know it, I know it, and I know too that it is impossible 
to persuade you that I have done no wrong. But,” Susie went 
on determined to give no further loophole, “but for dad’s 
sake, don’t let this go any farther. Let it drop. It would 
kill him to hear such talk — and it isn’t true. I swear it. Look ! 
I will go on my knees to you. I will beg you to let me stay if 
you wish. Oh, for God’s sake listen — I will do anything — 
anything but marry Saunderson. I can’t marry him. Mother! 
I will do anything except that. Only let me stay. Don’t turn 
me into the streets!” 

Susie fell on her knees at the word but Mrs. Sutcliffe shook 


AND PLAYS HER HAND 


S3 


her off. “Don’t call me mother!” she cried harshly, “or go 
on yer knees to me. Kneel to yer Maker. Gawd knows I 
wouldn’t be yer mother for all the gold in the Indies. Keep 
yer ’ands off!” 

Susie rose like one suddenly lashed on the face. She was 
stung now beyond endurance. She would beg no longer. 
She would fight, there was no other way left. A new scorn 
rang in her voice when next she spoke. 

“If you had been my mother,” she said swiftly, “I should 
have died when I was a baby. Children can’t live on texts. 
Let me pass.” 

“Stand back!” Mrs. Sutcliffe enjoined, her voice ringing 
angrily in the narrow passage. “I won’t be insulted in my 
own ’ouse.” 

“Your house! My father’s house you mean. Oh, if he 
were at home — if he were at home!” 

“Father! ” Mrs. Sutcliffe shrieked. “Aye, if I’d ’ad my way 
wi’ you, me gell, it isn’t the Spinney you’d a bin in, but the 
Lawd’s ’Ouse, if I’d ’ad to chain you to me wrist to drag you 
there.” 

She shook her fist menacingly in Susie’s face, but the girl 
was accustomed to vagaries of this kind and did not flinch. 
She faced her enemy with pale cheeks and gave back blow for 
blow. 

“A lot of good your chapel has done you!” she countered 
swiftly. “Where is your charity or love or forgiveness? 
Where are any of the things you hear of from squawking 
ministers at your chapel ? ” 

“Hold your tongue, miss.” 

“I will do nothing of the kind. You are so fond of your 
godliness. You snivel and whine all day of it. You are for 
ever quoting texts about love and forgiveness, but because I 


54 


THE ISSUE 


am late you threaten to turn me into the streets. You think 
you are just. You pride yourself on your judgment, but I 
tell you your chapel creeping has made you a hypocrite — 
nothing less.’’ 

“Chapel creeping?” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe was strangely quiet now. Her lips were 
drawn in a thin, bloodless line. “Have you done, miss?” 
she asked. 

“I have not. You aren’t used to hearing the truth, so for 
once you shall have it. 

“You go about with a sniff of contempt for your less for- 
tunate sisters. You ferret out lies about them and repeat 
them in your chapel doors. If a girl goes wrong it is you and 
your friends who have driven her to it. When she walks into 
the river you hold your noses high and say, ‘Thank Gawd I’m 
not as she is.’ Oh, you are very consistent in your godliness — 
but it is the men who fetch her out — the men who don’t go to 
chapel. 

“No, there can be nothing between us now, only enmity. 
You have hated me always, because I am father’s child. Now 
I hate you and if I am to go into the streets you will have to 
put me there. Stand back — I will pass.” 

She paused breathless and strove to force her way in. But 
the woman was strong and energetic. Her eyes narrowed. 
She had forgotten her quotations, forgotten her husband, for- 
gotten the cause of the controversy. She stood to “fight for 
the sanctity of her home,” and for her own mastery therein. 
“Back yerself!” she shouted and in a moment Susie was 
caught and thrown against the wall with a stinging slap 
in the face. The girl reeled, fighting blindly. Her foot 
slipped. Then Mrs. Sutcliffe took her by the shoulders and 
hrust her out. 


AND PLAYS HER HAND 


55 


^‘Go!” she shouted in ungovernable anger. Never you 
dawken these doors again. Go! Go to yer lover.” 

The door slammed. There was a noise of vicious bolting 
and barring, then silence fell once more on the old-world 
village street. 


CHAPTER VI 


Susie Revokes 


IFE is like a game of whist. To all of us when we come 



JL^ into the world cards are dealt and Nature stands aside 
to see us play them. Sometimes we play them well, 
sometimes we play them ill. Susie had scarcely made the best 
use of her hand and now she stood in the street at a time which 
roysterers from the Southern Trader and other hells consider 
their own. 

The stars looked down upon her in the stillness awaiting 
the card she would play. 

Never before had the village seemed so inquisitive; never 
before had the old home appeared so full of insidious laughter. 
The windows across the way were peopled with prying eyes, 
the lamps winked behind masks imperturbably grave of mien; 
the little alley down there by the garden sheltered countless 
peeping Toms. 

Susie looked up at the forlorn house she had known hitherto 
as a certain refuge and saw that the passage was dark. The 
sounds of housewifely care filtered through the walls. Mrs. 
Sutcliffe was locking up, closing her Bible, and turning out 
the lights. Susie remembered that presently the stern creation 
who had stood so long in her mother’s stead, would ascend 
the stairs, disrobe, and kneel — kneel to beseech God’s care for 
the ensuing hours, God’s direction for future works, God’s 
approbation for past deeds; and the knowledge gave additional 
point to the anguish she endured. The irony of it! The 


SUSIE REVOKES 


57 


mockery! It stung the girl to action and she threw herself 
upon the door, beating piteously with her hands. But no soft 
voice nor forgiving word came in answer to her supplication. 
She moved to the window and strove to loosen the catch. She 
stooped and found a stone with which to batter it, and again 
stood still. For down the street came a guest of the Southern 
Trader, ribald and stumbling under the weight of the liquor 
he had consumed. He sang noisily with a tongue that hyphened 
his words: 

“We won-go-^ome till marnen — 

We-won-go-’ome till mar-ner-ing — 

We-won-go-’ome, hie, till mar-ner-ing ! 

Before the br-eake-a-daysh.” 

Susie hastened to the porch, searching the narrow yard for 
sanctuary. She was still now and very pale. She decided that 
she must not be seen by this songster. With swift intuition 
she acknowledged that if he met her there would be further 
trouble. She had no desire for further trouble, especially of 
the sort that promised. Yet how was she to escape? 

The man approached in stumbling solemnity. The pave- 
ment was too narrow to give him foot room. The road be- 
came part of the scheme developed to week him. He strutted 
there in the dim light, as destiny ordering events, and again 
broke into song, a ribald, hateful thing born of the cups from 
which he had been driven by a publican tardily acknowledging 
that even he had duties. It was ‘‘The Chaffinch” who faced 
Susie at this hour, a man with whom no woman in that village 
wantonly attempted a passage of arms. 

To-morrow, if he espied the girl, all Abbeyville would be 
listening with bated breath to the history of his amazing con- 
quest. To-morrow, if this thing chanced, she would be ana- 
thema — outcast; one over whom the village would wag its 
head suggesting the unutterable. 


THE ISSUE 


58 


Susie decided that she could not risk this new peril, and with 
the decision came action. She opened the gate and in a moment 
was flying like a shadow towards the park. The man saw her 
and commanded her to wait. Endearing adjectives took the 
place of that ribald song, he clamoured for her company and 
the noise he made gave a new incentive to flight. Susie turned 
up the lane leading from the river, where an hour ago she had 
parted with Jack. She held a hand now in which there were 
no trumps, in which there were no kings, no aces, no queens — 
only the rank and file brandishing red and black pips. And 
the stars looked down upon her awaiting the card she would 
play. 

Slave Alley is the name of the avenue through which Susie 
passed on this night, and in the years of Britain’s travail the 
Romans drove their captives down its length to the galleys 
lying out there where the Bluebell hugged the mooring posts, 
waiting to go on the ways. Above them towered the hill which 
gave them shelter. Galley Hill, the place where perchance 
Susie might obtain succour and towards which at the moment 
she moved. 

Midway to the top of the slope she paused for breath. Not 
a sound marred the exquisite night. The solitary lamp at the 
end of the road burned without flickering. The leaves drew 
patterns in the white at her feet. It was lonely, still. All the 
quiet country folk were in bed and only such stray revellers as 
the man down there were abroad. 

A noise assailed the girl’s ears. She leaned forward and 
discovered the form of her pursuer dark among the shadows. 

Again she searched for a hiding place, a place wherein she 
could pause and gain time for thought; but the walls ran 
straight and high, harbourless on either hand. Susie waited 
no longer. She hastened to the high road which crossed at 


SUSIE REVOKES 


59 


right angles the way she had come. Five or six miles in either 
direction would see her in the streets of a town — and, as a 
matter of detail, it would be perhaps one o’clock. On the 
left, two miles from where she paused, the vicarage lights 
flickered advising her the family were not yet in bed, but to 
reach it she must run the gauntlet of Galley Hill. Before 
her, winding across the fields, was the villager’s track to 
Northdean, a little hamlet nestling on the edge of Shorncombe 
woods. 

Jack lived at Northdean. In less than ten minutes she could 
be at his side and safety would take the place of danger, rest of 
unrest, love of hatefulness. She sank down on the grass at 
the roadside struggling to think coherently. 

The tall trees threw their shadows across her, whispering 
in the breeze which claimed the hilltop. At the foot of the 
Alley she could see the river dotted with lights and quivering 
reflections, here a red gleam, there a green, here a cluster all 
white, there a space unlighted. 

It was Jack’s river, her river — the river she had watched 
and loved from childhood. Childhood ? Ah, that was gone. 
Gone with the loss of her home. Gone with the stigma which 
would now so inevitably fall upon her. In the eyes of that 
narrow village world she would be degraded, a hussy steeped 
in sin. To-morrow her stepmother’s tongue would have 
magnified her foolishness beyond palliation; to-morrow the 
idiot village would roll its head at her, tongue in cheek; to- 
morrow, if she did not act now, she would find herself cut off 
from hope. There was but one solution to it all. She must 
go to Jack. She had no home. She must ask Jack to give her 
one. They must be married at once. She must give up that 
notion she had desired and face the registry office — otherwise 
she would be outcast; a person at which dreary Christians 


6o 


THE ISSUE 


sneer; an object for the pity of missions and societies which 
reclaim. 

She must go to Jack. If she did not go to Jack, she told 
herself that all these things must come to her. She was driven 
— driven by some power over which she had no control. Oh! 
if her father had been at home, or she had been with him — 
useless, worse than useless, for then this had not happened. 
The futility of the “might have beens’^ struck her and she 
writhed. Her thoughts became a burden. The solitude un- 
bearable. 

She rose at once and keeping in the shadow of the hedgerow 
fled swiftly on till the cottages stood in view. A flush of shame 
crimsoned her brow here, but the night was kind, it was nearly 
twelve o’clock and all the houses dark. 

Jack’s window alone showed a faint light. Susie hastened 
towards it. She unlatched the gate and crossed the strip of 
garden. Every nerve in her body thrilled now. Her face 
burned. Her eyes took a strange, soft look. She peeped in 
unheard. 

Jack reclined in an easy chair at the back of the room asleep. 
The paper he had been reading lay on the floor, his pipe had 
gone out. He rested there in quiet content, at peace with all 
the world and ignorant of the anguish she endured. 

She whispered his name. He slept unmindful. The win- 
dow was open, the sill low — in another moment Susie had 
entered the room and fallen on her knees at his feet! 

“ Jack ! Jack ! Oh, my dear, my dear 1 ” 

She buried her face on his breast, fondling him like a re- 
pentant child. And springing suddenly from dreamland he 
caught her to him whispering: 

“Susie — is that Susie?” 

“Who else could it be, dear?” 


SUSIE REVOKES 


6i 


Then the incongruity of the situation and her quaint reply 
struck her and she leaned in his arms sobbing pitifully. 

The girl’s nerves were all unstrung. She verged at that 
instant on the hysteria of all excitable natures. The room 
was stifling, it seemed that she stood in danger of suffocation. 
She sprang to her feet as Jack moved away to find water, and 
fled suddenly into the garden. 

Elliott managed to overtake her as she essayed a passage 
through a gap in the hedge across the way. He took her in 
his arms and moved firmly towards the house. But she 
struggled for freedom. 

“Not there, not in there,” she begged between laughter and 
tears. “Stay out. It is cooler — and I — ^I must tell you.” 

He waited in silence what came, his strong grip and quiet 
manner soothing her. She became calm under his influence. 

“What is it, Susie?” he questioned at length. “Tell me 
what has gone wrong.” 

She looked up smiling, “Nothing, Jack.” 

“Nothing, Susie?” 

“I — I have no home, dear — that’s all.” 

“No home?” he questioned uncomprehending. 

“No home. Jack.” 

“You mean they have turned you out?” he adventured, 
feeling his way through a maze of guesses. 

“Mother has.” 

“Good God! What for?” 

The girl broke into a passion of tears. “Because she hates 
me,” she wailed, “and because I was late. But principally 
because I refused to give you up and marry Saunderson.” 

“Surely you can’t mean it,” he objected. Then raging up 
and down before her: “My God! come with me, lass, and I’ll 
see you safe if I stave the walls in. Threw you out, did she? 


62 


THE ISSUE 


Your mother who makes such a song of her religion. Come, 
I’ll take you home. There’s nothing else for it.” 

But Susie drew back, shaking her head. I can’t live there,” 
she returned. am a coward perhaps, but I can’t face her 
again.” 

“Then what is to be done?” 

Susie reached up and put her arms about his neck — 

“I must stay with you. Jack — and ” 

“Here?” he questioned, mindful of the prying eyes which 
would wake with daylight. 

“Anywhere, anywhere — and to-morrow you must take me 
to aunt’s at Swinfleet.” 

He held her close, watching the leaping colour. One hand 
discovered a way to smooth the soft cheek resting so near his 
own. Their eyes met, a restful look in hers, a look which 
shook him in spite of the anger still smouldering. “No,” he 
answered, “it can’t be here, Susie; but I know a place not far 
off — where I can take you, where I can leave you if you wish it — 
but ” 

“Is that necessary?” she interposed still watching him. 

He caught her to him in a fierce tumult of delight. “No, 
it’s not necessary. You are mine and I will guard you. You 
are mine — mine. God love you, sweet. I’ll never let you go.” 


And the stars looked down upon them as they moved away. 
They seemed to smile at the cards which had been played. 


CHAPTER VII 


The Inquisitor 


GAIN it was night and again these two passed out into 



1 \. coolness to find that sanctuary of which Susie had 
spoken. Swinfleet lay some miles distant and the farm 
was farther still, but they were going thither strong in the 
knowledge that Mrs. Surridge would give them welcome. 

It had been necessary to delay till darkness had set in for 
reasons mainly concerned with Elliott’s calling. He had been 
out all day thrashing the river, towing barges and berthing a 
ship. Also he had been to the registrar to discover how soon 
it was possible to “get tied up,” and that official had informed 
him of the necessary notice. To-morrow was Sunday and on 
Monday and the two following days he would be down river. 

Susie smiled when these delays were presented for her in- 
spection. She had no opinion of marriages solemnised in an 
office and gave the matter scant attention. 

“The banns are up. Jack,” she decided off hand. “We 
shall be asked to-morrow. A day or two will make no dif- 
ference. I am content — aren’t you ? ” 

“Content!” He took her in his arms and the smile he dis- 
covered seemed to suggest that she found the answer complete. 

Some little distance outside Northdean the country is an 
undulating plain, tilled, divided, and without roads. It is a 
vast garden in fact, planted with strawberries, currants, goose- 
berries, and hops. Beyond lies Shorncombe wood, a wide 
expanse covered with trees, bushes, gorse, and bracken. A 


64 


THE ISSUE 


few paths cross it, and amidst the trees, where the farm carts 
have furrowed a passage, these are easily followed, but where 
the foliage is denser the track degenerates into a mere beaten 
footway, difficult to find even in daylight. At night the risk 
is great, of course, for a stranger, but Elliott knew the land- 
marks, knew them for part of that great playground of his in 
which he had learned to love. 

The village clock was striking ten when they passed the pond 
near the entrance and came into the woods. Outside a cool 
breeze had swept across the fields, but within the sheltering 
trees no wind stirred and the air was warm and humid. 

Still the lovers moved on, sometimes in quiet, sometimes 
whispering of the life which was so soon to begin, which, in 
point of fact, had begun; but always their arms were inter- 
twined and their heads bent to search for the pitfalls with which 
the way abounded. They reached at length a gentle slope 
which led them to a small clearing near the centre of the wood; 
a space peopled only by the oaks, where many tracks meet, 
diverge and wind off amidst the farther undergrowth. 

Is was lighter here. The trees stood well apart and the 
stars looked down upon them. And as the two paused there 
the sound of approaching footsteps fell on their ears; and on 
looking up they perceived a figure moving quickly to intercept 
them. 

A woman, tall, slight, and dressed wholly in black, came from 
the shadows holding up one hand. Her face showed white 
against the trees; her hair, too, seemed white; but as she drew 
near they saw that it was like straw in colour. She halted close 
beside them with an expression of thankfulness which was 
almost painful in its intensity. 

“Thank God!’’ she cried. “Thank God for this. I feared 
I was doomed to wander all night. It is dark and cold 


THE INQUISITOR 65 

here, and I am very weary. Can you direct me to Abbey- 
ville?” 

Jack regarded her advent with some asperity. He resented, 
not unnaturally, the intrusion of a second care. “To Abbey- 
ville?” he questioned. “It isn’t easy. It’s four miles from 
here and the path runs anyhow.” 

“But you can point it out — surely you can do that.” 

“Do you know the woods?” 

“I see them to-night for the first time.” 

“Then it’s impossible,” said Jack. 

“Don’t say that. For God’s sake don’t say that.” 

“What else can I say? There’s no road, only a track, a 
dozen tracks. Why you might wander all night without getting 
to Abbeyville.” 

“And I have been walking now since dusk. At six o’clock 
I reached the little village over there, Swinfleet they call it, 
and had a cup of tea. Then I started to cross the woods, but 
a dreadful man sprang out of the trees and in avoiding him I 
lost my way. He was naked. Oh! it was horrible.” 

“Some poor devil escaped from the asylum,” Elliott sug- 
gested. “Well, this beats all. Here are we ” 

Susie crept to his side, interrupting him with a pathetic 
gesture; “We must help her, dear. We can’t leave her here 
alone.” 

“Short of going back a couple of miles there’s no way of 
doing it, lass.” 

“Then we must go back. I am not a bit tired.” 

“If you could and there really is no other way, it would be 
a kindness,” the woman acknowledged. 

“To you, yes; but to ” 

“Nonsense, Jack. I can manage it easily.” 

The woman came close beside them and taking Susie’s hand 


66 


THE ISSUE 


said: ‘T donH know who your are, nor do I ask. But you 
have a sweet face and I thank you from my heart. And I 
pray that when you have reached my age you may still be 
beautiful enough to hold your husband’s love. What am I 
talking of! You are my Good Samaritans. I must not delay. 
Come.” 

She spoke with so much ease and appeared so weary, down- 
cast, and full of trouble, that Jack relented and consented to 
the proposal. They turned at once to retrace their steps and 
in a few minutes had again entered the solitude from which 
they had only just emerged. But they walked in silence until 
Susie, finding it irksome, ventured a question. 

“Do you know Abbeyville?” she asked. 

“I have never seen it.” 

“A strange time to choose for a first visit, ” Elliott laughed. 

“Fate makes no choice of time.” 

“Fate?” 

“Love, if you like it better.” 

The tone sufficed. The trio moved again in silence. 

Down the path, over the hill, through a dense mass of foliage 
where they were compelled to stoop and hold back the boughs 
to force a passage; round bends and turns until at length they 
stood on the verge of the wood and the remaining distance 
could be indicated. Here Elliott paused to give the necessary 
instructions and the woman held out her hand. 

“I spoke brusquely just now,” she said. “I hope you will 
overlook it. I have my reasons. A woman turns to her 
sex for aid. How seldom her sex aids her you will learn with 
years. But you have been good to me and I wish I could see 
you again. Still, that is impossible; no, I ask no questions, nor 
do I give any confidences. Good bye — and you, dear, God 
bless you for your sympathy.” 


THE INQUISITOR 


67 


She marched off without waiting for any reply, her tall, slim 
form swaying against the starlight. It appeared, at that mo- 
ment, that she neither cared for nor heeded the fact of the 
additional tramp she had caused. Unquestionably she had 
been brusque. 

‘‘Who can she be. Jack?” Susie questioned as they moved 
forward. 

“God knows. Perhaps another lunatic — the woods often 
hold them.” 

“She didn’t speak like one.” 

“No, but she’s queer for all that — and she has given us a 
tidy jaunt for nothing.” 

“Still, I am glad we helped her,” Susie decided. 

“It adds another four miles to your walk, lass — four and six 
is ten. It’s too much.” 

“For you, dear?” 

“No,” he laughed; “for you.” 

“Then don’t think of it, for you and I are one.” 

Again they entered the woods, passed the clearing and came 
to the outskirts; but before they reached it, long before they 
drew near it, Susie began to lag. The way was so diflScult, the 
path rugged, dark, and full of pitfalls. When at length they 
emerged upon the road the moon was high, the night calm, 
and Susie too weary for words. 

They came to a little dell sheltered from the breeze and Susie 
paused to look upon it. “It is like our own dear Spinney,” 
she whispered, “and oh! I am so tired.” 

“Then rest a while. Sweet. God knows it can make no 
difference now.” He half carried her across the road and 
brought her to the bank. 

“And even if it did. Jack, I think I must,” she begged. 

He stooped to clear a space, then spread his coat upon the 


68 


THE ISSUE 


leaves, and she nestled down to rest. “I am so tired,” she 
smiled, “I think I could sleep for ever.” 

From far over the hills there came the shriek of an early 
train, the birds awoke, looked out, and saw the day was come. 
They preened their wings, fluttering busily in the soft warm 
air. The land was silent. The lights in the distant village 
grew dim, paled, and died. Smoke rose straight from a score 
of chimneys. Swinfleet was awake, and out there, beyond, 
Mrs. Surridge bustled about the farm questioning at intervals 
what had happened that Susie was not with her. 


Part n 


Ctie ^tn ano CI)eir g^a^ter 

CHAPTER I 

The Master 

R iverton is one of London’s outposts. By no 
stretch of imagination could one call it beautiful or 
picturesque in itself, and yet it has a beauty such as 
may be found in few environments. To discover it one 
must accept the river as part of it; to see it at its best one 
must choose the hour. 

At sunrise or at sunset, when the Thames rolls swiftly past 
the jutting piers and anchored shipping, when the red sails of 
tacking barges are turning mauve or purple; when the giant 
liners lying out there in mid-stream, carry a tinge of flame 
about their rails and blue on their sides; when the hulks and 
buoys and loading colliers are all bathed alike in that heaven- 
flung radiance, and the houses climbing tier above tier ashore 
seem to be palaces fashioned in the kingdom of the skies — then 
Riverton is beautiful; beautiful in that expressively sorrowful 
way which is one of England’s greatest charms. 

But if you take the streets and examine them, if you count 
the number of gin palaces flaunting brass and rank humanity 
to the skies; if you look at the shops which are dowdy, the 
slums which are abominable, or the government which is be- 

69 


70 


THE ISSUE 


yond criticism, then you find a town of the old style made 
modern without improvement; a town completely and over- 
whelmingly crushed by its gigantic neighbour and you marvel 
at the opportunities which it seems are lost for all time. 

Still, Riverton has docks, piers, forts, sea-walls and a garri- 
son. The troops sometimes visit the churches, bugles are 
to be heard and the red or khaki uniform is in evidence always 
on the footways. It may be accepted, therefore, that Riverton 
is a place of some importance in this fair land of ours. 

Now Wakeley Dunscombe, the owner of the Bluebell, lived 
in Riverton and grew fat on the provender procurable on the 
broad bosom of father Thames. He was one of the men who 
would have grown fat in any business community. He had a 
natural facility for making money grow. His friends spoke of 
him with enthusiasm. They said that he was ‘‘an indefatig- 
able business man,” by which term, if one analyses it, they 
probably wished it to be understood that he was a money- 
spinner. To get money is, of course, legitimate either in 
Riverton or elsewhere — the thing which matters is the means 
employed, and Dunscombe’s means were very mean. 

Prosperity shone in every wrinkle in this man’s face. It 
shouted from his diamond bedizened fingers and grew pos- 
itively offensive with the ponderous chain and seals dangling 
ostentatiously across his waistcoat. But the bank people 
attended his wants without question and the clergy called. 

Among his men Dunscombe had the name of being the 
hardest master on all the river side. No scheme was too low, 
too mean or too sordid for him to finger, provided he saw his 
way to clear a profit. His skippers were selected with but few 
exceptions from the riff-raff of Thames watermen, and he 
ground them in the mill of competition without remorse. He 
looked upon his “hands’’ as puppets out of which to fashion 


THE MASTER 


71 


wealth as speedily and economically as possible. He ruled 
them with a rod of iron, turned them adrift on the smallest 
provocation, and had earned the promised vengeance of not a 
few — a state of affairs in which he rather gloried. 

He was an assertive, entirely self-made man of slight educa- 
tion and boundless energy. A man of small stature, with quick 
eyes and a colouring which betokened the admixture of Welsh 
blood on the part of some not distant ancestor. But of this 
latter Dunscombe was unaware. Indeed he would have denied 
the imputation with scorn, for he prided himself particularly 
on the lack of a genealogical tree, as though the fact that he 
had descended from someone and had inherited traits as well 
as induced them, reflected in some obscure fashion on his in- 
dividual success and made it less his own. 

His house was characteristic of the man. He designed it, 
contracted for it, and built it. No sufficiently enterprising 
builder could be found to undertake the work — on Duns- 
combe’s terms. It was large, showy, and quite original. On 
the ground floor it blossomed solemnly as a Queen Anne; 
higher, it sprouted Gothic excrescences and embrasures; still 
higher, red brick battlements flourished and the necessity for 
something in the middle was met by a lighthouse. From the 
windows of this structure Dunscombe commanded a view of 
the neighbouring chimney-pots, together with that angle of the 
river dominated by his wharf. From this eminence, too, he 
surveyed the swarming hive of men, and pondered on the means 
of extracting further profits. 

Everything about the house proclaimed the man. Every- 
thing spoke of the theodolite and rule. The windows wore sym- 
metrical bibs and tuckers, tied individually round the waist 
with crisp pink ribbons, as though they were children expecting 
company. The doors flashed shiny glances at their duller 


72 


THE ISSUE 


neighbours across the way; and the resplendent brass- work 
winked like a yacht’s fittings. 

But it was the garden that Dunscombe especially loved to 
trim and square and rule out of all decency. Here the angles, 
triangles, and octagons were positively indecorous. Nothing 
could well be bolder than the iron border around the beds, ex- 
cept, perhaps, the filagree fence that hemmed the lawn. Noth- 
ing could well be more shameless than the box-tree stork that 
sat in a garden nest looking for chicks which never came; except, 
perhaps, the puffy rotundities of that cherub, dancing wantonly 
beside plaster lions grinning ferocity on either side the steps. 

The diamond-shaped beds were filled with foliage plants 
arranged in a diamond-shaped pattern. The trees were shaved 
as though their master were a barber and exhibited them as his 
sign. In the centre of an iron-bound fountain, a shivering 
Venus stood waiting for the water which never flowed. The 
plants were all of one height and one circumference. Individ- 
ual excrescences were promptly nipped in the bud; it appeared 
as though the trees and shrubs had, by long training, become 
imbued with a sense of their own insignificance, and had agreed 
to suffer effacement before the preponderating egoism of the 
Master. 

Adjoining the house and overlooking the garden where Venus 
shivered eternally, was a small study which Dunscombe used 
often as an office; for, even his home was not sacred from the 
business of money-getting. Here he frequently saw those 
‘‘Captains” of his, whose arrival he had witnessed from the 
lighthouse, after the office was closed. And it was here that 
Dunscombe sat one evening, toasting his toes over a glowing 
fire, and pondering jovially on the triumph of “individual talent ” 
when set in opposition to the narrower possibilities of more 
honourable firms. 


THE MASTER 


73 


A letter had just reached him from the owners of the steamer 
which had collided with the Bluebell. It was a comforting 
letter, containing the offer of a compromise, forwarded through 
his solicitor. An offer worth accepting, for Dunscombe knew 
that fifty pounds judiciously spent, would make the Bluebell 
every whit as seaworthy as she had been before — which, per- 
haps, is not very high praise. 

The compromise was for three times that amount, and no 
law worries. Dunscombe’s mouth watered as he sat there 
thinking his thoughts in silence, and a smile of infinite com- 
placency lingered on his face. Once more, to use his own 
phrase, had he crept to windward and won. Once more the 
Bluebell would shine and be the pride and envy of all the fleet 
at no expense to himself. True, a man had been drowned in 
the collision, and a broken-hearted woman with four hungry 
brats had wept loudly in the hall ; but that had been the skip- 
per’s fault, not his: an accident in the game, which the hands 
must learn to take — with their pay. On the whole, the affair 
might have been worse; and if Saunderson had been less of a 
fool, he might have stayed on — but . . . The man’s jaws 

snapped like a gin, and he had mentally decided to write to his 
solicitors bidding them accept, when a maid entered to an- 
nounce one of the men. 

“Who is it?” 

“Captain Saunderson, sir.” 

“Saunderson, eh? Show him in.” 

Now Saunderson had been much inDunscombe’s thoughts for 
some time past. In addition to the matter of reckless navigation 
it had come to the master’s ears that this zealous servitor of his 
was promulgating a strike among the hands; that he was the 
leading spirit in the strike now in progress at a certain cement 
factory, close at hand, which had caused him considerable loss. 


74 


THE ISSUE 


To touch Dunscombe thus was identical with flicking a horse 
on a raw. It made him kick out with curious indiscretion, an 
effect probably of the lack of educative self-control. 

The man moved heavily into the room and stood twisting his 
cap in his hands. There was a cut across his forehead, and the 
back of his head was bound with strips of plaster. He was not 
pretty to look at, and Dunscombe eyed him sharply. 

“Well, Saunderson, what’s come to you?” he cried. “Been 
fighting?” 

“No, sir. It’s in yon huffle I got it. There’s a bad sea on, 
an’ her gear’s all to Jiminy; it’s likely a block swingin’ loose 
cut me a snick. ” 

“Oh.” 

There was a peculiar inflection in Dunscombe’s voice. He 
knew from long experience with what diffidence a Thames 
skipper speaks the truth, and took this opportunity of showing 
it. Saunderson squirmed where he stood. “Sir,” he cried 
hotly; “them as say otherwise, lies. I’m standin’ on the tug’s 
deck; we are close under her bows an’ the derelict’s jumpin’ 
crewl. What hit me I don’t know; but it’s somethin’ flyin’ 
loose. ” 

“I thought there was a difficulty about getting very near?” 
said Dunscombe quietly. 

Saunderson stared; the pulse in his forehead throbbed omi- 
nously. “It’s a lie, Guv’nor!” he shouted. 

“Silence, man; don’t rave at me. ” 

“It ain’t easy to keep quiet when lies are slung at you,” said 
Saunderson more soberly; “and, if every one had his doo,” he 
continued with the intention of dispelling the bad impression 
he had made, “there’s no two ways about it, the Stormy Petrel 
would get a change of masters. ” 

“ How do you mean ? ” 


THE MASTER 


75 


‘Tt might pay you to shift skippers, Guv’nor — that’s my 
meaning. ” 

Speak out, man; don’t hint at things. If you have any- 
thing against Elliott, let me hear it. ” 

Saunderson snapped his fingers with an affectation of indif- 
ference. “For that matter,” he said, “I’ve nothing against 
Jack Elliott — he’s as good a man as here or there another. 
But, he’s got no principle — that’s what I look at. A man that 
has no principle ain’t any sort of man. What would you say 
to a chap that did a ‘little bit on his own,’ when he’s bound 
to give account for all he earns? It ain’t fair doos, sir. It’s 
possible to do a good bit on your own, if you do it judicious. ” 

“I suppose it is,” said Dunscombe quietly; “most masters 
have to put up with robbery in one form or another. ” 

“Aye, sir; maybe that’s true. But when there’s honest 
hands why keep dishonest ? It’s no sort of encouragement for 
the honest sort — now, is it? Tell me, sir, when did the towing 
of the Tantalus^ Captain George Sutcliffe, come into your 
accounts? If you can tell me that I’ve done. Say I know 
nothing about it, an’ you won’t be far out. ” 

Dunscombe looked up at the sound of this man’s accusation, 
but he had no intention of bandying unnecessary words. 

“How long ago ?” he questioned. 

“Ten days last Friday.” 

“Where?” 

“Off the Jenkin.” 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“I’m coming through the Swatch wiv the Deerstalker and 
see it.” 

Dunscombe turned quietly to his desk. “I remember,” he 
said, “I have an account of it.” 

Saunderson’s air of certitude deserted him; he was completely 


76 


THE ISSUE 


thrown off his guard. ‘‘Then Jack Elliott^s a liar, he articu- 
lated. “Why he told the old man there would be no 
charge. Said he’d take five shillin’s to settle the job. I heard 
him.” 

“I know nothing of that.” 

The two men remained in silence for some minutes, Saunder- 
son uncomfortably twirling his cap, Dunscombe leaning back 
in his chair and eyeing him with a shrewd stare. 

“Well,” he remarked at length, “is that all you have against 
Elliott?” 

“ Most masters would think it enough. ” 

“That is nothing to me.” 

The man was nonplussed. He did not like Dunscombe’s 
quiet manner. It would have been more comfortable to hear 
him swear. There was something behind all this that he 
could not fathom, for Dunscombe, as a rule, was not chary 
about receiving information. Besides, Saunderson was con- 
scious that in his hatred of Elliott, he had allowed his tongue to 
run away with him; the incident had grown in the telling. 

“If that is all you have to say we may as well come back to 
business.” Dunscombe’s voice fell sharply on the man’s ears 
as he leaned forward, searching for a paper. “For instance,” 
he continued suavely, “what about this collision of yours. 
^Caspian v. Bluebell,* ” he quoted from a document he held. 

“What about it, sir?” 

“I am not satisfied with your statements on the subject. 
How is it that you were not on deck yourself?” 

“Sir, I’ve just gone below for a wash. A man can’t always 
be on deck. ” 

“You brought up at Thames Haven: what were you doing at 
the Golden Crown all the flood before you came up ? ” 

“I went ashore to get some tommy. We’re clean out of grub 


THE MASTER 


77 


an’ when I come back the boat’s got a hole knocked in her. 
What can I do ? I must mend her so as she’ll swim. ” 

‘‘Is that a true bill, Saunderson?” 

The man had been drinking and again showed signs of it. 
“Lumme!” he blurted in desperation, “if it ain’t the truth it’s 
a lie. How’ll that do?” 

“It is a lie.” 

“All right; say it’s a lie. What then, Mr. Dunscombe?” 

“You were drunk, my lad.” 

“I was no more drunk,” he shouted in blustering consterna- 
tion at being confronted with the truth, “than you are, Guv’- 
nor.” 

“Silence, man.” 

“Lumme! I won’t be silent. Who told you that? Where 
did you get it from? Why,” he continued with one of those 
accessions of rage to which he was given, “ from Elliott. That’s 
where you got it.” 

“I have not seen Elliott,” Dunscombe returned with hard- 
ened accent. 

“Lie!” cried the other. “You want to shield Jack Elliott. 
You listen to him; you won’t listen to me. By Gawd! I’ll be 
even wiv the pair of you yet. S’elp me, if I’m not even wiv you, 
may I drop down dead — ^rotten ” 

He plucked fiercely at his neckerchief and would have con- 
tinued, but speech was denied him. In an access of ungovern- 
able rage he only stuttered inaudibly. 

Dunscombe rose to his feet and stood confronting him. 
“Silence!” he shouted. “How dare you. Get out of my 
house. I will have nothing further to do with you.” 

They stood some minutes glaring angrily at each other; then 
the stern, unbending attitude of the master, and the inborn 
habit of obedience, slovenly and ill-learned as it was, came 


78 


THE ISSUE 


to Dunscombe’s aid. The man turned slowly to open the 
door. 

‘T’m discharged?” he questioned in a smaller voice. 

*‘Yes.” 

Right. Then I’ll have to look for another bloke, an’ there’s 
an end.” 

He walked from the room, but almost immediately returned. 
“May I look to you, sir, for a character?” he questioned. 

“What sort of character can I give you?” Dunscombe 
sneered; “I hereby certify that James Saunderson has been 
captain of the schooner Bluebell for eighteen months, and lost 
her in a fit of drunkenness — something of that sort, eh?” 

Saunderson stood twirling his cap in sullen apathy, and his 
master resumed: 

“That I know that James Saunderson is a leading member 
of the Union, and upholds the rights of the workers against the 
masters. I might add that, too, eh. Captain ? ” 

“An’ haven’t the men some rights?” cried Saunderson, his 
anger leaping anew. “Are we to sit still an’ rot, while you 
trundle around in the carriage our work has got you?” 

“You, individually, may starve and be damned. With the 
others I have nothing to do.” 

Saunderson drew breath quickly. He stood there, gazing 
round the room and moving his neck as though he found his 
collar stifled him. “And that’s all you’ll do for me?” he 
questioned. 

“I have nothing further to say. Leave my house.” 

“Right.” 

He advanced to the door, opened it, and turned about. 
“Right, Guv’nor,” he reiterated, speaking with slow emphasis, 
“but there’s two parties in every raffle — it’s all likely you’ll 
find there’s two in this.” 


THE MASTER 


79 


He moved from the room and found his way into the street. 
He felt the need of air. It seemed to him, at that moment, 
that already the curse was beginning to work. He thrust out 
one hand questioning if this were so, but the darkness had no 
answer for him. It rilled in the streets as it had rilled out there 
where the trouble had arisen. Smoke twisted in the streets, 
fog had twisted on the river. That was the difference. 

But to Dunscombe sitting before his comfortable fire the 
case presented no such illusion. He was in no way flustered by 
the scene from which he had emerged triumphant. He was 
accustomed to the silly ebullitions of wrath presented gratis by 
those “hands” he was compelled to discharge. He appre- 
ciated them at their full value. “A horse swerves when he is 
hit,” he decided, “and the British workman swears. The 
difference is not worth consideration.” 

Still, seeing the man was now discharged and that he was 
obviously ripe for mischief, it became imperative that Duns- 
combe should at once accept the offered compromise; and to 
do this it was necessary to obtain a document from the wharf 
office and to see the foreman. When that was done he could 
give final instructions to his solicitor. 

An hour later, therefore, Dunscombe rose from his desk and, 
wrapping warmly in the hall, called to his servants that he 
would be some time absent. With these words he closed the 
door and went out. 


CHAPTER II 


The Sea-wall 


FOGGY night, the streets greasy, the air thick and 



-tlL torpid; humanity owning homes hastening thither; 
humanity lacking anything in the similitude of that 
Elysium seeking their kennels, the gin palaces and the 
arches. In the arches carts are sometimes found, tail 
boards which shall form a roof, straw wherein mankind may 
lie and brood or breed as seems him best. It is one of the 
laws from which Authority tells us there is no escape. But 
in Riverton as elsewhere Authority is frequently found in 
the hands of men of Dunscombe-like proclivities — and, well 
perhaps it is immaterial what happens in the gutter. 

A dull and foggy night lay over the town, and the town 
sweltered in it, sending heavenward a glare of yellow light as 
from the door of an open furnace. Clangs rose up in the still- 
ness, the jar of wheels, and down there at the foot of the High 
Street the wail of steamers passing up Reach. Mankind too 
shuffled hither and thither in the gloom — Saunderson among 
them; Dunscombe, walking briskly riverward, and some mal- 
contents, offshoots of the strike dragging its slow length over a 
neighbouring townlet, and with them several of Dunscombe’s 
discharged hands. 

A somewhat sottish company, on the whole, seeking on a 
sodden night some means of passing the hours, perhaps of 
losing them. 

One leaning against the brass railing of the Scorpion moved 


8o 


THE SEA-WALL 


8i 


forward as Dunscombe came past but the master did not see 
him. He was busy with his plans, immersed in the cares of 
that business which had lifted him so high among the towns- 
people. The Scorpion’s lamps were of the attractive order, 
bright and staring, as though mankind, like the moth, was to be 
cajoled into burning its wings. The light shone on this loung- 
ing man. His wings had been singed by its power. It shad- 
owed the movements he made, brought out the fact that he was 
clothed in rags and that one arm dangled miserably as from a 
sling. But it was not slung. There were days when this had 
been the case — days of long ago, before the man had become the 
sottish lout revealed by that appalling glare. 

Dunscombe passed on. Walking briskly he came to the 
meadow-land at the end of the road and entered the paths 
leading to the river. The singed man followed him, swearing. 
Dunscombe paused to stare at the water; the man who fol- 
lowed halted also. 

The fog out there was cleaner than the fog in the town. It 
was whiter, but, for the shipping, more insidious. It was 
suflSciently thick to blanket the lights along shore, sufficiently 
clear to make the risk of continuing under steam not wholly 
impossible, and Dunscombe had pangs as he thought of his 
scattered fleet. He posed in the Riverton directory as a ship- 
owner; but this sounding phrase meant simply that he owned 
a couple of coasting schooners, a brig, a tug or two, and half a 
score of barges. But as there is a head and a tail to all creep- 
ing things, so there is a head and a tail to the ship-owning 
fraternity. Dunscombe walked with the tail and the rattle 
he made suggested a kinship to the snake of that species. 

He came to the sea-wall and faced the growing mist. He 
knew by the decreasing volume of sound that it was not yet 
thick enough to suspend navigation, for when this happens the 


82 


THE ISSUE 


great river runs silently under its wintry cloak and the eddies 
swirling on the foreshore are the only tokens of its presence. 

It was cold by the riverside. Those who have walked as 
Dunscombe walked know precisely the degree of discomfort 
produced by a river fog. Had he been a man of less persis- 
tence, of less energy, be would have returned. But this was 
not Dunscombe’s way. There was money at the back of this 
walk. He had set himself the task of earning a good round 
sum from that long-suffering body of city men known as the 
underwriters, and he intended to lose no time in the process. 
To be an underwriter is synonymous in some people’s eyes 
with being a Croesus. A Croesus is an individual who suffers 
from fatty degeneration of the moneybags and a knife is nec- 
essary to effect a cure — so with the underwriters. Dunscombe 
held the knife. 

The river bank was slimy. To walk without gathering a 
sabot of clay was impossible — at the end of ten paces you shed 
a sabot and began again. Authority considered it an excellent 
means of keeping the Tommies in barracks, for no nursemaids 
with any pretensions would be seen dead on that clay. The 
man who followed Dunscombe considered it from a different 
standpoint. 

On the one hand, then, there rolled a fog-bank slowly strang- 
ling navigation. On the other a white and steaming mist com- 
bined to hide the marshland. Dunscombe plodded on the clay 
perched high above the ditch which lay on his right. It was 
high tide and only a narrow margin of grass land intervened 
between the sea-wall and the river. He moved, therefore, with 
caution, as befits a man who intends to handle currency. He 
had often come here afoot in the dead of night. He had no 
fear, nor any very distinct impression that he was hated. He 
knew that he was not loved — as the river men express, it — 


THE SEA-WALL 


83 


but that formed no obstacle. Were there not police. The 
man had no imagination. His brain was occupied with the 
processes by which it is possible to make shipping pay in these 
days of competition, and nothing else was worthy of thought. 
As he came near the stile perched midway to the Garter Pier 
hotel an unusual sound struck his ear. 

Dunscombe halted at once, his faculties alert to discover 
some new piece of idiocy on the part of his hands, for this was 
the anchoring ground of that fleet he ruled so parsimoniously. 
He told himself that a boat had been left to drive ashore and 
knock herself to pieces — perchance one of his boats. Devil 
take the careless loons! What thought have they for a master’s 
property? In Dunscombe’s eyes the only thing for which 
they care or look, is their “Saturday night” — all else is bagatelle. 

Using his stick to guide him the man stepped down to make 
discoveries. He crossed the grass, avoiding the pools and bridged 
a rivulet which had its birth diurnally with the incident of high 
tide. Pish! He would be wet before he had done with this 
business — wet, and he desired to keep dry. No — it was not a 
boat; it was — what the devil was it? 

Nothing — worse than nothing. A round and flabby horror; 
the carcass of a dead sheep or goat, distended, hairless, bobbing 
in the shallows — ^yet he could have sworn he heard a boat. 
Faugh! the thing stank. It was poison — rank. Why did 
these evidences of decay always drive ashore when there was 
the whole river to hide them ? Dunscombe could not have said. 
The law governing the grounding of floating matter did not 
appeal to him except in the case of shipping, and then it only 
took the form of a question as to the punishment to be meeted 
to the author of the mishap. He commenced to climb the bank 
anew, then paused as again the sound crept out of the stillness. 

He was right. He plumed himself on this fact. It wa 


84 


THE ISSUE 


boat, a boat coming shoreward. He resumed his attitude of 
watchfulness and presently a cry rang out to satisfy him: Ahoy 
there ! Garter Pier ahoy ! ’ ’ 

A bell struck near at hand was the response. Although 
nothing was visible Dunscombe knew from this that a boat was 
anchored only a few lengths distant. Again the cry assailed 
him: “Ahoy! AhoyP^ and the answer rolled in the fog. 

“What ho, mate — hello!” 

“ Where away for Garter Pier ? Up or down ? ” 

“ Down a tidy lump. Who’s there ? ” 

“Elliott.” 

“Jack Elliott?” 

“Aye! This fog has put me out of my reckoning. ” 

Dunscombe remained attentive. It was one of his modes 
of gleaning information, and frequently pregnant of results. 
The talk went on as the boat moved in. “Just up, I s’pose?” 

“Aye; brought to off the wharf I reckoned, and want to catch 
the 8.15.” 

“ You’ll have to step it then. Land on the wall, mate ; there’s 
a tongue just inshore of me. ” 

“Right. So long, skipper. ” 

“So long, old son.” 

Dunscombe had gained but small information, but he had a 
word to say to Elliott and stepped back to give himself the 
pleasure of saying it with sufficient point. A minute later the 
boat’s nose took the ground and as Elliott sprang ashore his 
master moved to confront him. 

“This is not the sort of weather to leave your ship in, my 
lad, ” he threw out with a snarl. 

The skipper paused midway to the bank and stared. “Who 
would have thought of seeing you, sir!” he remarked inconse- 
quently. 


THE SEA-WALL 


85 

Evidently you would not. What are you doing ? 

“ Going home, sir. 

‘‘Call back your boat.” 

‘‘What for?” 

“To take you on board again.” 

“But I don’t want to go aboard. I’m bound home.” 

“I suppose,” said Dunscombe in his most provocative style, 
“I suppose you understand that you are refusing to obey my 
orders. ” 

“Sir, I obey your orders. I obey them often when I’d like 
to do the other thing; but the tug’s at anchor, lights hoisted, 
fires banked, the mate’s in charge, and I am going home. The 
fog won’t rise this side of noon to-morrow. Why should I stay ? 
Excuse me, it’s wet standing here. ” 

With that he picked his way across the grass and climbed the 
sea-wall. Dunscombe followed. 

“Now, sir, if you’ll tell me what good it will do you me being 
on the tug,” Elliott resumed, “why, although I’d promised Sue 
— that is I’ve made arrangements to be at home to-night. I’ll 
listen to you. ” 

This rather unwise speech angered Dunscombe and he turned 
round to give emphasis to the fact. “I am not going to argue, 
Elliott. I am not in the habit of arguing with my hands. I 
order you to go on board. ” 

“Sir. I’m not a dog, though God knows I’ve served you 
faithfully. Suppose I refuse — what then ? ” 

“You can take a week’s notice.” 

Elliott hesitated. “That’s it, Mr. Dunscombe; now we 
understand each other, ” he said at length. 

“Hail your boat!” cried the master. 

“No, sir. I’m not such a fool as to make those chaps turn 
back and lose their bearings in this thundering fog. If I do go 


86 


THE ISSUE 


off it will be in a waterman’s skiff. Why, what has gone wrong, 
sir? Don’t I give you satisfaction?” 

The skipper’s voice took a new note. He was thinking of 
Susie and wondering how she would bear his home-coming if, 
on the eve of her marriage, he brought the news of his discharge. 
To quarrel with a man of Dunscombe’s type was equivalent to 
a period of idleness, perhaps of starvation; for no skipper so 
discharged found it easy to regain command — at all events on 
the Thames. 

Dunscombe watched him through half-closed eyes. ‘T 
believe,” he returned with a snap, “that you might do better.” 

A suggestion flashed through Elliott’s brain. “What is it, 
sir,” he questioned, “hasn’t the derelict job turned out trumps ?” 

“That is a big affair, my lad. We can leave it to look after 
itself. It is the little things, Elliott, the little things which give 
opportunity for peculation.” 

Dunscombe spoke meaningly, with an inflection that would 
have made a dead man squirm and Elliott acknowledged the fact 
in words that leaped hot to reply. 

“Look here,” he cried, “fair play’s a Jewel. Speak out 
straight — man to man. What have you got up against me?” 

“Did you tow the Tantalus when she was on her last charter 
— quite lately?” 

Elliott swore but quickly regained control. “I did give her 
a pluck,” he acknowledged. 

“Off the Jenkin?” 

“That’s it, sir.” 

“Where does it come in in the charges’ sheet?” 

“It doesn’t come in.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because there wasn’t any towing done. Any little tosher* 
could have done it.” 


♦Small tug-boat. 


THE SEA-WALL 


87 


“Oh — Show’s that?’^ 

“ Well, it’s like this. I’m lying on the tide waiting for a chance 
of a tow when Sutcliffe came sagging by. There wasn’t enough 
wind to flutter the duff bag* at his masthead. Sutcliffe was 
driving on to the sands and I nosed him off to an anchorage. 
There wasn’t any question of towing; there wasn’t ” 

“Yes, yes, I know all about it, ” Dunscombe broke in sharply. 
“It’s the old story of damned, bare-faced robbery. You put 
your hand behind your back and take five shillings and arrange 
to say nothing about it. ” 

Elliott faced him instantly, his face ablaze. “That’s a lie!” 
he cried, “and the man that says it is a liar.” 

“Pish, man; don’t bully me.” 

“It’s a lie — by God, it’s a lie.” 

“ I know it for fact. Stand off, man, don’t hustle me!” 

“Hustle you — ^you damned worm! Stand off yourself. 
Take back those words or by the Lord and all His angels I’ll 
choke them out of you — see?” 

Elliott caught him by the throat and stood over him, shaking 
him savagely. Dunscombe was like a rat in the grip of a terrier, 
but he squirmed for freedom. “Let go!” he cried. “Heigh 
there — help! help!” 

Elliott shook on. “You came down here to give me the sack ; 
but you aren’t the man to do it straight. You tell me I stole 
your money. You tell me I’m a liar when I’m speaking God’s 
truth. You come sneaking and prowling about in places 
where you have no business — and now you’ve got something. ” 

Dunscombe writhed in desperation. He had not looked 
for this. His habit of bully-ragging had got the better of his 
natural caution. A man may call another a liar, perhaps more 
than once, in the security of his office and from the arms of a 


*Wind vane. 


88 


THE ISSUE 


swivel chair upholstered in plush; but out in the open, facing 
the river, within sound of the steamer horns — scarcely. Yet 
he fought gamely for freedom, shouting his plaint to the night: 
“Let go! Let go! Hi, there! Help! Help!’^ 

Elliott flung him off. “Right. Let go it is. Stand up fair 
and no nonsense. No man shall say I stole his money. Why, 
I would sooner have paid the crown myself than let poor Sut- 
cliffe pay it. Stand out ! 

The master gathered his forces and stood at bay: “It’s 
a lie,” he hissed, “and you know it. Mind, the matter won’t 
end here. The courts shall decide it — ^you understand ? ” 

His words suddenly died. A strange, choking cry broke 
from Elliott’s lips. He leaped forward swinging his arm and 
Dunscombe fell on the clay he had marked with his feet — fell 
and remained there like a sack flung from the tail of a cart. 

And then Elliott acted the fool. 

When a man strikes down his master, the person who finds 
him that most necessary “Saturday night,” he may fairly be 
accused of rashness; but when he leaves that master to the 
tenderness of a fog-bound night he acts the fool and perhaps 
something beside. 

Necessarily Elliott did not admit this. Dunscombe had 
called him a liar and he had knocked him down — that being 
done the man’s passion lapsed; the tension was over and he 
kneeled beside him to see how he fared. He breathed. There 
was a flickering of the drawn in nostrils, there was a bad cut 
over the eyes and the man bled; but he was only stunned and 
would recover. Too soon in all probability he would recover; 
then there would be trouble. Elliott would be delayed and 
unable perhaps to see Susie. Was there not even a chance of 
arrest ? Had not Dunscombe threatened it in that paltry matter 
of the five shillings ? 


THE SEA-WALL 


89 


And if there was arrest he would not see Susie — Susie who 
waited his coming and was to go to church with him to-morrow 
to hear the banns read. Arrest — that was the danger. 

The thing flashed before him in many guises. He had been 
branded a liar and a thief. F or no fault he was to be discharged 
precisely as those others had been discharged. Dunscombe 
was no man. He deserved consideration from no one. Elliot 
breathed quickly at the memory of his wrongs and he rose from 
his knees and hastened up the sea-wall towards Riverton. 

In his own vernacular, ^‘all the fat was in the fire” and he 
must abide the result. 

But the move was hazardous. Even more hazardous than 
that of Susie’s upon which the stars had looked down and 
smiled. 

And in the background was that singea figure from the door 
of the Scorpion — a man who carried one arm as though it were 
slung and on whose feet were clogs of the North country pattern 
— clogs heavy with clay. 


CHAPTER III 


Clack 


HE fog had vanished, leaving the world to count the 



-i- cost during some brief hours of sunshine. A dull, 
steamy day, lacking wind, with the sun sucking at the 
quivering marshland. Hours of this, then followed declining 
light, growing mist, the ghost of twilight and in natural sequence 
the earth lay banked once more in fog. 

But early in the day, before noon in point of fact, Riverton 
was thrilled to its heart by a report. A rumour had arrived, 
carried no one knew whence or how, to the effect that a man 
had been found by the river embankment, under the sea-wall 
— a man, beaten, bruised, dead, and lying in the ditch outside 
the town. 

A gloomy conclave approached the spot hazarding opinions 
and spouting vile tobacco: 

‘ ‘ Terr’ble ! terr’ble 1 Who can it be ? ” 

A question this not easily answered, for the man’s face was 
foully mauled and battered. It had lain, too, in that stagnant 
ditch some hours. Cries went up from lips biting hard on 
short black pipes: “Eigh! Shockin’, shockin’. ’Go’s done it? 
Wot for ? An’ ’oo’s the bloke ? ” 

All pertinent questions given off by men peering at the thing 
lying there for men and boys to stare upon, given off in the dull, 
immovable fashion of persons accustomed to tragedy. 

“ ’Go’s done it ?” was speedily dismissed as an abstract prob- 
lem requiring time for solution. ‘‘Wot for?” gained the 


CLACK 


91 


answer: *‘Not robbery, that’s a moral,” for were not watch and 
purse quite safe? “’Go’s the bloke?” was perhaps a trifle 
baffling on seeing the face. But the watch and some stray 
letters explained at once. A loafer with a dismal voice spelled 
out the name: Wakeley Dunscombe, Esquire. 

Wakeley Dunscombe, owner of the Bluehdl^ and a score of 
river craft, he it was who lay there, blind at last to all possible 
methods of money-getting. 

The dismal voice went on: “Dunscombe! Well, of all the 

bloomin’ jaunts I’ve ” and broke off to expectorate 

viciously in the ditch. 

Another voice took up the plaint: “A ’ard case ’ee wos, 
terr’ble ’ard — yus, it licks!” 

“Hard perhaps,” a softer voice suggested; “but look at 
the site he gave to the Wesleyans.” 

The dismal personage removed his pipe to give force to his 
opinion: “A chap uz ground ’is ’ands like ’ell.” 

“And a man who headed many subscription lists — come, 
you must own to it.” 

“Own to it? Ya-as, but wot did ’ee do fer the widdas an’ 
kiddies of them he’s drowned? Any subscription for them? 
Garn! It’s Dunscombe. I’m not tikin’ any.” 

Opinions for and against waxed in power and volume. The 
air by the ditch resounded with defence and defiance, with 
cursings and prayers for silence, the latter brought out by the 
knowledge that at all hazards the man no longer existed to 
press on his fellows. Then came a shutter and with its advent 
there presently marched a solemn cortege to the Garter Pier 
hotel. 

Wakeley Dunscombe was dead. How the news made way 
in the steaming air, gathering the crowd who lounge, together 
with the crowd who have no leisure for lounging. How the 


92 


THE ISSUE 


busy tongues wagged, clacking of this or that possibility! How 
necks were craned in eager converse! 

‘‘Dead, where?’’ 

“In the shed outside.” 

“True?” 

“Aye, true enough. Bashed. Beaten to death. Indis- 
tinguishable.” 

“Eigh! shockin’, shockin’!” 

A crowded house that dead house, during all the remaining 
hours. A silent, solemn house inside; a busy, noisy space 
within the tap-room doors where bronzed men shuffled the 
news across sawdust floors. 

‘'H’ast seen ’im?” 

“Yaas.” 

“Looks crewl, don’t ’ee?” 

“Yaas.” 

“Leaves a taste in a man’s mouth, don’t it?” 

“Yaas.” 

Three of rum are necessary to dissipate the taste and the 
Garter’s comfortable bar is close at hand. 

A more cultured voice took up the thread, speaking earnestly : 

“Terrible business this?” 

“Indeed you are right.” 

“Wonder what could have been the motive?” 

“Oh, some of his discharged hands, probably.” 

“Bad, bad! Want to be diplomatic now-a-days as well as 
discriminating. I never take on heavy chaps myself — bad 
policy. Kick too hard if it comes to that. Bah! Ugly busi- 
ness — have a drink?” 

Across the counter the clack went on apace. 

“What’s yours?” ^ 

“ Somethin’ short. Looks ugly, don’ ’ee ? ” 


CLACK 


93 


‘‘Yaas; wot d’you say to threes of brandy?’’ 

‘‘Couldn’t better it. Two threes of brandy, Miss, straight. 
Well, here’s to us — an’ him.” 

“Gawd! did yer see ’is fice?” 

“Naal don’ seem to ’ave none left. Seems like uz if ’ee’d 
bin’ ’it wi’ a bloomin’ engine, don’ ’ee?” 

“S’elp me, I’m sick. Two pints of four ’arf. Miss.” 

“Lumme! wot’s the use o’ that? Give us two goes o’ rum.” 

“Lawd! the poor head of him.” 

“Two pints of ’alf an’ ’alf.” 

“ Couldn’t get a-nigh him. ” 

“Two brandies and a soda, split. Miss.” 

“I tell yer there ain’t no eyes lef’ to see. Is there. Bill? I 
ast you as a chap as knows wot’s wot.” 

“Threes of brandy short.” 

“Pint o’ four ’alf.” 

Indescribable, baffling reproduction in its grim, crude colour- 
ing; but human interest, humanly expressed after the fashion 
of the viewers. 


r 


CHAPTER IV 
Micky Doolan Explains 

I T WAS Micky Doolan, now mate of the i‘antaluSj who 
brought to Abbeyville the news of Dunscombe’s murder. 
To say that versatile Irishman was elated, is to convey but 
little of the overwhelming importance with which he explained 
the details to those eager knots of village listeners. Micky 
Doolan, it appeared, had been the first to see the horror of the 
ditch. He was the man who had summoned police assistance 
and volunteered, afterwards, to be one of those who carried the 
terrible burden to the dead house. 

These were matters which contributed to render Micky the 
person next in importance to the unknown murderer; and 
materially helped to assuage his thirst at no expense to him- 
self that day. 

By nightfall, indeed, he had repeated his story so often, and 
so many ‘‘dhrinks had been slung at him,” that there is a pos- 
sibility of truth in the rumour which grew about his name in 
this connection. 

It was said that Tony Crow found him the following morn- 
ing sleeping peacefully on the smithy floor, his head pillowed 
on a bundle of tongs and his arms about the anvil. But Abbey- 
ville loved gossip only one degree less than it loved a mystery; 
and like all villages could play with the best at exaggeration. 

It was in the smithy yard where Doolan first broke ground, 
and the time was eleven o’clock on the day following the jnur- 
der. A time propitious for yarns and a hearing, being, in point 

94 


MICKY DOOLAN EXPLAINS 


95 


of fact, the hour when the British workman takes his lunch. 
Micky was standing near the open smithy door, a knot of men 
about him, and Tony Crow, open mouthed and beaded with 
sweat, amidst the group who faced him. 

“Whhat was ut?” said Micky Doolan with a swing of im- 
portance. *‘Ut’s murdher, me sons — that’s whhat ut was. 
Who wass ut?” he went on with appalling pride. “Misther 
Dunscombe, dead as porrk an’ appil sauce, an’ twice as nasthy.” 

‘‘Socks!” cried Tony Crow in hollow tones. 

“Garni Drawr it mild, Micky. What are you givin’ us? 
Top it off somebody!” cried the audience with unusual fervour. 

“Where wass ut?” said the Irishman again, no whit stag- 
gered at this reception of news honestly circumstantial. 
“Listhen, an’ I’ll tell yez.” 

“I’m cornin’ up the say- wall from beyand the forrt. Bad 
luck to ye, Jock Stoggers wid yer interruptions. But ye’ve 
hit ut; I wass dhown at the Pier — an’ ut wass Miss Mary I 
wass afther. Now will ye let me get on, ye slummer ? 

“I’m cornin’ up the say- wall, pickin’ me way along the grass 
because av the mud. The fog’s in me eyes an’ dhown me 
throat, an’ I’m gropin’ along loike a crab on the beach, whin I 
hear the scuttle av rats in the ditch. ‘Divil run aw^ay wid ye,’ sez 
I, ‘ye skulkin’ black bastes. Whhat are ye doin’ scarin’ the 
sowl-case out av a man ? ’ Thin wan av the brutes came dhown 
acrass me thracks an’ I slung me cap at ut, an’ had to climb the 
mud to fetch ut. 

“Whhat did I see? A pool av blood. Strakes av blood on 
the stones, the thurmoil av bloody grass an’ a man’s hat bat- 
tered out av shape. That’s whhat I saw, me sons. ‘Glory be, 
Micky, ye slummer,’ sez I, ‘is ut dhrinkin’ ye’ve been an’ ye’re 
seein’ things — or whhat is ut?’ 

“I rubbed me eyes, lookin’ ut fair an’ square in the face an’ 


96 


THE ISSUE 


wint to make investigations. ‘What is ut ? what is ut That’s 
the queschun I’m askin’ meself all the toime I’m climbin’ 
dhown the thracks. It’s not sheep-stealin’ or slaughter-house 
bizness; there’s not enuff blood for that; an’ the man’s hat don’t 
belong to any sheep-stealin’ sogers. Whhat thin is ut ? 

“I’m starin’ through the fog at the marks av boots dhragged 
dhown the bank. They’ve torn away the grass, long strakes 
av ut, an’ dhown beyant, lyin’ half in, half out the ditch, is a 
soakin’ whelterin’ mass. 

“Whhat wass ut? Whhat could ut be ? ” 

“A sticket sheep, ma son,” said Tony with a short laugh. 

“Murdher! That’s whhat ut wass,” said Micky Doolan, 
and then he paused. 

“How do you know?” cried a voice. 

“Which av you,” said Micky Doolan in reply, “wud knock 
his head to blazes, an’ thin dhrown ut in a ditch av stinkin’ 
wather? Answer me that who spoke.” 

“Tain’t likely,” cried several voices together. “Don’t 
mind his jaw. What did you do ? ” 

“Whhat did I do ? I sthooped over an’ pulled his head frojn 
the wather — for, sez I, ‘who’s to know he’s dead?’ I hadn’t 
seen his face then, bhoys. Glory be! I wish I hadn’t. I 
wish ut heartily. But I lifted him be the shoulders an’ 
looked. Mother av God! what a sight ut wass. Ugh, the 
ugliness av ut all laid opin fer inspechsun an’ the slugs set fast 
alridy.” 

Tony Crow moved nearer, raising his hands. “Go easy, 
ye mad Irishman,” he cried. “D’ye want me ta bash ma 
fingers when ah coom t’wark. Socks! ye’ve gien me a taste 
it’ll coss sothin ’t’ squench.” 

“I knew ut,” said Micky, triumphantly; “I knew ut. 
There’s not a man I’ve told ut to, but whhat he’s had a thaste.” 


MICKY DOOLAN EXPLAINS 


97 


‘‘Did ye know who it was, Mike? What did you do ? Tell 
us that, ’’ cried the rest of the audience. 

“I tuk leg bail for ut,” he replied; “I never thravelled loike 
ut in me toime. I ran fer the stachun, told me yarn an’ fin- 
ished up wid a requesht fer a dhrink. ” 

“You shouldn’t have run,” said a voice from behind. 

“Whhat for shouldn’t I? Whhat for shouldn’t I, Win’bag 
Saundisson ? ” 

“Because it’s not always safe to run,” said the BluehelVs 
skipper quietly. “I knew a chap once that nearly got lagged 
for running. ” 

“Ye did ? An’ whhat has that to do wid me ? ” 

“Nothing — nothing whatever as far as I know. I’m speak- 
ing on general principles simply. ” 

“An’ on gen’ral principles I shud say you’re wrong, Win’- 
bag, ” said the Irishman. “If you ask me whhat I think about 
ut, I shud say the innocent’ll run, if he’s got mixed up in ut; an’ 
the guilty will stand firm so long as there’s no suspicshun laid 
at his door.” 

“Socks!” cried Tony Crow, “let us aa’ run. We don’ 
want t’harken t’none o’ Win’bag’s argiments. He’s a chice 
speerit, there’s na doot; but just noo ma speerit tak’s 
t’form o’ two’s o’ rum. An’ Micky Doolan looks as 
though he were of the same moind. Out wi’ ye — ah’m shut- 
tin’ t’door.” 

In the Southern Trader, the landlord had heard nothing of 
the rumour. So Micky Doolan’s story was retold with em- 
bellishments for the benefit of the new audience. 

In the afternoon another rumour flew clacking from tongue 
to tongue. Where it originated no one thought of asking until 
it came to Tony Crow. It had grown from a simple sentence 
heard by some gossip earlier in the day, and by dusk, the whole 


THE ISSUE 


village knew and discussed the damning words with bated 
breath. 

It came from Riverton the woman said. The police were 
on the track. Eh! shockin’, shockin’. From right amongst us — 
what could have put it into the lad’s head ? What lad ? 

‘7ack Elliott.” 

“Socks! wha telled ye thot lee?” 

The blacksmith halted beside the forge staring at the men 
who spoke. 

“Why, everybody says so, Tony.” 

“ Wha’s eevrebody ? ” 

“All the village, man. The police are after him, anyway.” 

“T’Lord sen’ he may get ava them. Eigh man! what art 
thou gein’ us?” Tony dropped the sledge and stood before 
the glowing fire, obviously incapable of further effort. “Ah’ll 
jus’ shut oop t’shop,” he said, relapsing into his broader 
dialect as his excitement grew. “Ah’m no fit fer more the 
day. Jock Elliott! Socks! Ah’m no dootin’ ye; but ah can- 
nit believe it of t’lad. ” 

“But he’s gone from home, Tony.” 

The blacksmith made no reply and the other continued: 

“They’ve looked for him far an’ wide; his old woman haven’t 
set eyes on him since Saturday night. ” 

Tony sat down on a spar which lay outside the smithy; the 
others clustered about him, for in that community Tony’s opin- 
ion was considered absolute. 

“ They say that Elliott was sacked the night before the mur- 
der, ” said the voice. 

“Sackit, fer what?” 

“Not playin’ it square wi’ the Guv’nor. Did a bit on his 
own, they say. There’s a barney on the sea-wall; there’s them 
as heard it.” 


MICKY DOOLAN EXPLAINS 


99 


‘^Eigh, the puir laddie. ’’ 

‘‘The Guv’nor had to go down river way at night for some 
papers, so they say, an^ Elliott meets him an’ it’s all up. ” 

“Wha says aa’ this?” 

“Everybody, Tony. Lawd! It’s Elliott they’re lookin’ for 
an’ no other, Riverton way. ” 

“Eevrebody! Then ah don’ tak’ oop wi’ it. Ye’re like 
t’a ruck o’ cluckin’ hens, wi’ yer eevrebody. ” 

The group fell back and the blacksmith resumed: 

“They say Dunscombe’s kickit abaht t’head. Ah’m no 
dootin’ it; but ah know summat abaht keekin’. Ah lairned it 
oop noarth, an’ ah’m gaein’ ta see yon dead un. When ah coom 
back, ah’ll tell ye.” 

Micky Doolan who had circuitously approached the group 
during the latter sentences, now stood clutching feebly at an 
anchor. The light from the smithy fire fell full upon him. 

‘ ‘ J ack Ell — Elliosh ? ’Mpossible. Know — hie — know J ack 
Ell — Ell — Elliosh bettethanthat. Arroo! Sh’d think I did, 
hie — Futwidja — Kelliosh — once. Know ut. Arroo! n’eyes- 
to-luk-out-of — hie — when-he’d — finish ” 

Micky Doolan was already suffering visibly from the effects 
of the taste he could not drown. Someone took him by the 
arm and led him away; but when Tony Crow returned from 
Riverton late that night, he was lying almost speechless on a 
seat in the parlour of the Southern Trader. 

“Ah see him,” said the blacksmith solemnly. “Ah see him 
an’ ah say Jock Elliott’s no the chap thot’s wanted. Jock don’ 
wear clogs. Clogs is what yon chap got it from — nowt but 
clogs cud do it. ” 

“ Thruebill 1 ” cried Micky Doolan waking up at this. “ Glory 
be. Na Jakelliosh — hie. ’Mpossible.” 

LOFC. 


CHAPTER V 


Mother Keyne 


HE ghost of the chary dawn still lingered in the east 



X when Elliott left Swinfleet and struck out down the 
lanes for Riverton. A sickly dawn it was in all verity, 
throwing a gleam of light, sad, blurred, watery; then again 
the land was wrapped in misty trappings, the gray-green trees 
vanished at the lower branches; the hop kilns, the farms, and 
isolated ricks all stood in shadow, unseen beside the sodden way. 

But the man’s thoughts were far from his surroundings. 
Half an hour ago he had left Susie at the gate of her aunt’s 
cottage and turned to see her still waving him God-speed. 
The recollection thrilled him in spite of fog and chill east wind, 
thrilled him in spite of the difl&culties with which he was 
hedged, for had he not kissed her, and had not their last word 
been of marriage — love’s panacea for all entanglement. 

Last night on reaching the cottage he had come in burdened 
with the resolve to tell Susie of his ill luck — that viperous thing 
which, it appeared, still hovered to baffle him. But he had 
found so cosy a home, and so real a welcome that he could not 
mar the picture by proclaiming his idiocy and unfitness. That 
is what it had come to. His walk to the cottage had decided 
this. He had played the fool, he had lost control when he 
should have gripped it, and now, as far as he could discover, 
Susie would have to pay. 

We all pay in some form for the pleasure of giving rein. In 
blood, in tears, in hard earned cash we pay and then stand 


lOO 


MOTHER KEYNE 


lOI 


back to brood upon the might-have-beens. It is a law from 
which few escape. But Elliott decided, in face of that loving 
welcome, to know the worst before he spoke. 

The worst he pictured to be dismissal, the usual difficulty 
of obtaining fresh employment and a dwindling of that god- 
send with which he had intended to marry and settle. These 
were the makeweights he faced in imagination. There was 
also that threat of Dunscombe’s to remember. He would be 
summoned for assault and battery — perhaps also, as an ad- 
ditional smudge, for drunkenness. 

If these came he must meet them. But he had no intention 
of walking boldly into a trap. He would get down to the river, 
see his friends, and learn something definite as to his position 
in this new character he had earned. By the bridle-path the 
distance to Riverton was little over four miles. He decided 
to walk it, and to that end moved through by lanes and across 
fields sodden with moisture till he came to the summit of the 
hill where lies a junction of four cross roads. 

A raw and biting air swept up the slope to meet him. It 
came from the river carrying with it a hint of the jarring 
traffic, the fog horns, the bells, the roar of factories eternally 
grinding out cement, the ring of iron beaten and shaped at the 
forges. Riverton lay there curtained in fog.’ The Stormy 
Petrel lay there, perhaps sounding her bell. The knowledge 
induced Elliott to hasten. It was possible that orders had 
arrived and they awaited his coming. It was possible too that 
Dunscombe waited at the office to twit him with the fact that 
it was tide time. 

He came to the level crossing and saw that the gates were 
closed against him. Over there stood the old woman, cus- 
todian of the crossing cabin and guardian of the railway. She 
held a green flag in her hand and waved him back. 


102 


THE ISSUE 


“Bide where you be!” she commanded, and Elliott moved 
over to join her. 

“Morning,” he remarked, “ cold blow. Missis. The winter^s 
coming in early.” 

“Raw, Jack lad, raw. Gets in a person’s bones like summat 
sticky. It’ll make a carpse of I before I be done wi’ it.” She 
watched him sidelong from under bent brows, a shrewd, swift 
look from eyes apparently rheumed. “A carpse,” she added 
coldly, “as stiff as thick dead un over to the Garter. Lard! 
I wish I were back to Darset — I do.” 

She stood there large, placid, and red of face, staring up the 
track and holding out her gray-green signal, to the train which 
drew near. Elliott watched her without concern. She was 
known as a certain prophet in all matters pretaining to rheum- 
atism and the weather. They went hand in hand in this 
forsaken county. They were interwoven, in a sense, and 
nothing short of living in “Darset” would alter the fact. Tea 
was the panacea which enabled her to endure — good, strong, 
stewed tea set on the hob and allowed to simmer. 

Elliott broke into the pause as the train roar grew in volume. 
“You will have to make them give you your pension,” he 
shouted; “they can afford it; but who’s at the Garter now? 
Jo Mackie or Ted Summers been picked up?” 

Again the woman glanced up at him and again said in her 
blunt fashion, “Naa, an’ won’t never be. I’ll go bail — for why? 
’Cause they’m fish meat by this. Blame thick train! ’Ow 
she do crawl to be zure. Carpse! O! ’ee. Why Dunscombe a 
carse — ’oo else? ’Aven’t ’ee heard?” 

No — Elliott had not heard, and even now he was uncertain 
whether he heard aright. He faced this old soul whose delight 
it was to prattle to all comers of the beauties of “Darset,” and 
questioned in a new voice: “Dunscombe? Sure?” 


MOTHER KEYNE 


103 


“Zure? Aye, zure enough. Can't keep they geats shut fer 
folks as want to see en. They'm a’most as bothersome as the 
rheumatics. Zure? O, aye; zure enough. Dunscombe — 
the shipowner man uz has the whaarf out there. Oh, aye — 
'n now I come to think on’t, 'ee were your master too an' all — 
warn't 'ee. Jack?" 

She waved her flag to indicate the riverside, and the train 
drew slowly up, rumbling in the fog. Elliott appeared sud- 
denly fascinated by the approach of that iron mass. His face 
had taken a tinge of yellow which blended with the day. He 
leaned forward with questions framed, with eyes which entreated 
— ^yet said no word. The old woman saw and resumed her 
prattle. 

“Down to Darset," she asserted, “there's nary a fog like to 
this. Fogs there are white, like steam. You'm good fer a 
hun'ard — not that I be hankerin' arter sech long days. 
Zeventy'll about do I. My old man, 'ee were zeventy-vive 'an 
a blame zight better to a gone at zeventy. Got wizened up 
wi' thick owld pain o' hissen an' might a bin dead — ^)'ears. 
Eigh? 'Oo killed Dunscombe? La — '00 d'ye suspeck? 
One of 'is chaps they zay up to Garter — one of 'is chaps — " 
She eyed him sidelong with sparrow-like fidelity despite her 
bulk of form. 

A detonator exploded as the train drew past. “One," said 
the gatekeeper. A second followed at an interval which did 
not please her. “Two," she commented; “right number; 
but the Lard only knows why 'ee were so long making up 'is 
mind to go off — ^blame if I do." 

The train lumbered into the fog lying dense over Riverton 
and the woman laboriously opened the gates. 

Elliott moved a few paces to resume his journey, then paused, 
twisted swiftly on his heel as though about to start on a race 


104 


THE ISSUE 


and drew up. He fumbled in his pocket for a pipe, placed it 
between his teeth and struck a match. He sucked a moment 
in silence, but no smoke came. He looked into the bowl and 
discovered that the pipe was empty. 

Again he fumbled, hand deep in pocket, produced a twist of 
tobacco, filled and lighted. The hand holding the match 
might have been stricken with a palsy, the teeth which held 
the stem seemed intent on dropping it. He shivered as though 
the disease had suddenly widened its grip and for a moment 
there appeared a new look in eyes usually steady — a tense, 
beaten, scared look which the majority of people facing him 
would have recognised at once. So he decided drawing to 
cover. But the old woman, whose faculties were no longer 
alert, whose eyes were rheumed, who delighted in vague recol- 
lections of ^‘Darset” — well, she at all events would 

From within the cottage came the sharp ting-ting of the 
telegraph asking for attention. The movement made by the 
old woman as she crossed to reply broke the thread. She gave 
a signal and came into the rustic porch which framed her door. 
Over the archway and trellis were the dying tendrils of a 
clematis. They rustled in the chill breeze high up about 
the woman’s head and she drew her shawl a shade more 
closely. 

Elhott saw these things as he stood there halting beside the 
track. He noted the curve of the rails dwindling away into 
the distance, examined the levels and found them higher on 
this side than on that. He marked the fact that the gulls swept 
down upon a little space where there was a pool in the marsh- 
land and emerged with something in their beaks; but the 
things failed to interest him. Across the panorama of moving 
and still life there stood the picture of a man lying bruised and 
bleeding high on the sea-wall — a picture which grew in force 


MOTHER KEYNE 


loS 

and detail as though under the hand of an artist busy with his 
brushes. 

Dunscombe was the centre of that picture — and Dunscombe 
was dead — lying at the Garter — struck down by one of his chaps. 

If that were so then he Pish! he sucked at his pipe, but 

it had gone out. He pressed down the tobacco and withdrew 
his finger swearing — the damned thing — like the rest of us — 
can’t go straight — always contrary — always 

He looked up, a swift, troubled look, and discovered the 
old woman at his elbow. 

“Jack, lad,” she said, “You’m waitin’. Forgot somethin’ 
seemin’ly. There’s the telegraft in my cabin — an’ it’s nigh on 
tide time. You’m wantin’ to ” 

ElHott drew himself together with a jerky fling of one hand. 
“Aye,” he said, “but what it is I’ve forgotten I can’t think — 
it’s clean gone. Funny, isn’t it?” he laughed. 

“Baccy?” said the old woman eyeing him. 

Elliott slapped his pocket. “No,” he decided, “it’s not 
baccy.” 

“Pipe?” 

“No — see,” he produced it, holding it up. 

“Arders?” 

“No; I’ve had none — as yet.” 

“An’ Dunscombe won’t be givin’ none this mornen’?” 

“Have you seen him?” Elliott flung out. “Are you sure 
he’s dead? How d’you know?” 

“’Av I seen en? No, Jack, I ’avn’t seen en an’ don’ want. 
But there’s a many as ’as. Down to Garter they say as they 
can’t keep folk away no more than flies off’n meat. Human 
natur’. Aye sure. But I an’t seen en.” 

Elliott still stood regarding this enigma as a man regards a 
landscape, far off, on which certain figures are in motion. He 


io6 


THE ISSUE 


appeared to be engaged in a mental argument, a calculation 
of chances from which the gate-keeper pulled him with a jerk. 

‘‘If you’m bent on goin* to see en,’’ she advised, “go when 
it’s dark — or better still don’t you go at all. ’Tain’t werf it. 
Every one is goin’ an’ cornin’ past ’ere. Traps, carts, barras — 
even the police — harse-police. Jack. Can’t keep my geats 
shut for ’em. I ’ear ’ee’s a zight. Cruel ’ard he was on ’is 
hands. A chap like that wouldn’t live long down to Darset — 
blame if ’ee would. A nasty, lecherous, w’eezy — Ah ! so you’m 
goin’ back arter all — good. There won’t be no work to-day — ’n ’ 
I ’aven’t sot eyes on you. Jack, lad — mind that. ” 

Elliott moved down the road in a species of dream. The 
woman’s words rang in his brain; but he was uncertain of their 
meaning. Did she intend to warn him — and if so, why? He 
had struck this man. He had seen him lying there stunned. 
Stunned but breathing. He was very certain of this fact. But 
suppose by chance the fellow had not regained consciousness 
— suppose he had been struck on some vital part and had died — 
then 

Elliott pushed the question aside. He decided it was 
absurd, impossible, and yet, as his ears had heard, down there 
at the Garter lay evidence, indisputable evidence. 

He moved more rapidly down the road and came to a crossing. 
On the left were the marshes, on the right roads all converging 
on Riverton. It seemed at this moment that it was necessary 
to think, to gain time and thresh this matter out — then as he 
halted there a woman moved out of the mists coming from the 
river. She paused on seeing him and drawing near said : 

“My friend of the other night, if I don’t mistake you?” 

Elliott met her gaze with that new-born desire for solitude 
lurking in his eyes. He decided that this woman dressed in 
black and wearing round her neck a fur boa, also of black, 


MOTHER KEYNE 


107 


was the woman of the woods and an inquisitor. She stood 
before him with her quizzical smile, her black garments accent- 
uating the extreme strawiness of her hair, obviously uncertain 
of his identity. Yet he could not bring himself to deny recol- 
lection — despite the fact that he considered it necessary. After 
a moment he replied in the affirmative: “Yes; that’s me. ” 

The woman marked his confusion but took no heed. “ When 
I met you the other night, ” she smiled, “I had no idea you were 
a sailor. But now I see that you are and I wonder whether 
you could help me find someone — he is a sailor also; a river 
captain, I believe — James Saunderson.” 

“ Jim Saunderson ? ” 

“ Ah ! I see you know him. Tell me — tell me ! ” She stepped 
nearer, holding out her hands, but Elliott had no desire for 
this or any conversation. The reply had slipped before he 
was aware how much it implicated him. It remained therefore 
to fence with this woman, to bluff her, learn whether she had 
been near the Garter and give nothing in return. He drew 
himself together with an effort. 

“In a way,” he replied. “Yes, I have heard of him.” 

“Where, here or in Abbeyville?” 

“He was here, but I believe he has gone north. ” 

“North?” 

“Aye — the Tyne, Shields or some place up there.” Then, 
seeing the woman searching his face, “and — well, as I’ve an- 
swered your questions, perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me 
whether you’ve been to the Garter ? ” 

The woman drew back, her eyes flashing. “Every one is 
talking of that. What do I know about it? Pardon — you 
were kind to me that night. Yes; it is some ship-owner, a hard 
man, Dunscombe: do you know him?” 

“Is he dead?” 


io8 


THE ISSUE 


“Yes.^’ 

Elliott fumbled with the buttons of his coat. He glanced 
up at his companion. * ‘ Who — that is, how did it come about ? 

The woman put up her veil and again smiled. ‘T am not 
sure. They tell me he was knocked down and is cut horribly. 

“Any word of who did it?’* 

“ One of his hands, I believe. Why, did you know him too ? ” 

Despite the curious numbness which surrounded him he knew 
that this woman was watching him with greedy eyes, taking in 
details of his appearance, perhaps marking him down for the 
future description. He held his head erect therefore and 
replied again with an evasion. 

“I have heard of him. And I believe he was a hard master, 
as you say. Thanks — yes, and as to Saunderson, I don’t 
know how long he will remain north. I scarcely knew much 
of him and we aren’t cousins. He wasn’t much here — very 
few of us are. So — I will be getting along. ” 

He turned on his heel and crossed the road. 

Out there in the yellowness lay the marshes and silence. 
The marshes where no people wandered asking questions, 
where nothing moved but the shadows, and the silence was the 
silence of those who are asleep. 


CHAPTER VI 


The Woman Pays 

T O FIND pleasure in the marshes lying east of the level 
crossing one needs few cares. A dog, a gun, and 
b’jtiutchreather is a seductive mixture — for ground game, 
'and widgeon are to be found by the man who loves 
rough shooting and who has the necessary permit; but Elliott 
was not of these; nor was the weather exactly heartening. In 
point of fact it was abominable. The ground had arrived at 
that stage when the absorption of more moisture was impossible. 
When, if you moved from certain beaten tracks you stood a very 
fair chance of never moving again without assistance. 

But these were considerations of no weight with Elliott. 
He knew the marshes and, on the other hand, had gleaned 
some knowledge of the risks he ran elsewhere. He preferred 
the marshes. 

In the near distance a quaint old hutch reared its rugged 
outline against the smoke-like mist. Beside it lay a ditch of 
stagnant water edged by reeds. Beyond there rolled the 
marshes of the Hundred of Hoo, interspersed with ditches and 
embankments, astride of which were the gates which began 
and ended there. Elliott moved onward shrouded by the mist, 
at liberty to smoke or walk or think untroubled by the ghost 
of capture. He came to the hutch and entered. 

From an artistic point of view the thing left nothing to be 
desired; but art and comfort frequently roll wide as the hills. 
This picturesque hutch was simply the inverted hull of an 

109 


no 


THE ISSUE 


ancient ketch or bawlie-boy* set on two tiers of bricks, a fire 
place at one end, a door at the other. In summer it was used 
occasionally by the shepherds, sometimes formed a snuggery 
for the marsh bailiffs, sometimes a rendezvous for tramps. 
No one inhabited it permanently. Some enterprising fisher- 
man had built it long ago and, when he died, the owner of the 
marshes called it his. 

Here at all events Elliott was secure for hourse—for 
in the fog then regnant he knew no marsh bataking)r 
shepherd would be abroad. Here he would have time 
to formulate some plan, time to arrange how he might 
warn Susie of what had happened. He sat down amidst a 
litter of straw, head sunk, eyes searching the doorway for 
possible intruders. 

A long while he remained thus, a strained look on a face 
betokening youth and immunity from care; a look becoming 
nervously expectant under its new burden. Dunscombe was 
dead. He acknowledged that this fact stood. It was useless 
to deny it. And if Dunscombe was dead, then it was possible 
he hzd killed him. It was the natural sequence, the corollary 
of his action — ^yet, for a moment, it appeared impossible. 
Again, on consideration, he found it possible — a difference in 
terms that struck him as being out of all proportion to the 
weight of hazard involved. 

Once more he leaned forward, searching his memory for the 
order of events as they occurred that night. Dunscombe met 
him, jeering and ordering him as though he were a dog. Dun- 
scombe, when he had retaliated in some small measure, 
broached this question of “doing a bit on his own’’ as they 
phrase it, and he had denied it — blusteringly, angrily. Then 
Dunscombe had called him a liar and a thief and he had struck 


* Shrimper. 


THE WOMAN PAYS 


III 


him down. ^‘As I would strike him again — now, by God! if 
he called me a liar and a thief. ’’ 

Elliott rose from his seat and gave emphasis to his opinion: 
‘‘As I would strike any man who called me a liar and a thief — 

as . Sst! The man is dead — dead — and I . What’s 

that?” 

He moved to the small window and set it wide. The fog 
streamed in. He discovered a group of plover whirling about 
the hutch seeking a new pitch. Nothing else. All fog and 
steam and mist. The world a-sweat with the burden it bore 
— nothing else. Again he returned to his seat and again after 
a lapse of time crept to the window. Nothing — only the gulls, 
the plover and silence; a silence that penetrated as the fog pene- 
trated and was as productive of shadows. 

He returned to his seat, taking himself to task. What a 
coward he had become. How easily he trembled. He swore 
softly this was not so — that he had cause, cause sufficient to 
break the heart of a statue. 

Dunscombe was dead. If this thing were true then was 
it not possible the blow he had struck had killed him. Mother 
Keyne, the old gate-keeper, had hinted pretty plainly her view 
of the affair. Or was it her view ? Was it not possible that she 
had heard something and intended to warn him? Of course 

it was possible — yet No — no — the thing was impossible — 

he announced it plainly staring at the gap in the roof. Then, 
if that were so, came in mocking comment, why was he in 
hiding? Why did he cower there when he should be at the 
river attending his work? 

He played into these people’s hands by remaining hidden. 
It was suicide. He must get out and face it — face it. That 
was the only thing a man could do without shame. 

“Face it!” He rose at the word and crossed towards the 


II2 


THE ISSUE 


door. Then, driving him back, thwarting him, came the know- 
ledge that Susie awaited his return that night at Swinfleet. 
That if he faced this thing now, he might not be able to see her 
or explain what had happened. Others would do that for him 
— people who desired to keep them apart. No; he could not 
face it yet. He must see Susie first. He must marry her. 
That, at all hazards, was a duty he dared not postpone. If the 
worst came, and she desired it, he must marry her at once, and 
then — but why conjure with the thing. He admitted the 
absurdity, but it stood there a very potent force to hold him 
tied to the hutch during all remaining hours of daylight; if 
he would see Susie again in freedom. 

Nine hours on the marshes, not with dog and gun, but with 
misery for companion; nine hours listening for footsteps which 
never came, searching out the genesis of those sounds which 
at intervals smote him; nine hours fasting, dragging at the 
essential facts which dogged him — a man need be strong to 
stand so severe a strain and remain steadfast to the resolve he 
had formed. 

He had come into that solitude for thought and to avoid a 
capture w'hich at the moment appeared barely feasible, and 
with thought had come this dread thing, this sequence of events 
which bore down upon him, baflOled him, and kept him prisoner 
against his will. 

He questioned of the four walls: What had he done to bring 
this misery into the life of a girl he admittedly loved ? But no 
answer came to cheer him, only the eternal cry of the gulls, and 
the swirl of their wings as they passed the hutch. The hours 
dragged on. Sometimes the man leaned forward dozing, 
sometimes stood watching the marsh tracks converging on the 
hutch, sometimes paced to and fro the narrow floor. It grew 
late. Elliott came to the door and looked out. The silence 


THE WOMAN PAYS 


113 

was maintained. The land retained its curtain. The gulls 
were fewer in number. 

The sun had vanished from a sky it had not touched since 
dawn when at length Elliott emerged from his shelter. He 
walked down the sodden walls, feeling the path with a stake. 
Movement freshened him. He was on his way to greet Susie 
and to tell her — his news. 

He came to the lane where, that morning, he had met and 
fenced with the inquisitor of the woods. It was silent now — 
silent as the marshes had been. Up there perhaps a mile dis- 
tant was the old gate-keeper with her bundle of fog signals and 
her flag; farther still, the river with its burden of shipping and 
ebbing stream. Had it not been for Susie, at this moment he 
would have passed straight and swift to the river and there, 
shrouded by the fog, would have made his way to some land 
where a man had chances — the land of which we always prate 
when misfortune strikes us in our own. 

Up the lanes, shadowed by the trees and sunk in fog; along 
a desolate stretch of highroad, avoiding the glare of lamps set 
now to hinder him, and so to the edge of the town. One 
street he was compelled to face. In the morning he had trav- 
ersed it humming a tune, now he traversed it seeing pursuers 
at every corner. Already he had run the gauntlet of a dozen 
imaginary captures when someone clutched him by the arm. 

He swung free with a savage gesture. 

“What do you want? Stand back!” he cried. 

“Whisht! how you jump to be sure. Sonny, take us home; 
it’s cruel cold on the streets to-night. You won’t — then stand 
us so’thin’. O Gawd, it’s cold.” 

“Out of my way, what the devil do you mean?” 

“My word, if it ain’t Jack Elliott!” 

“Wdl?” 


THE ISSUE 


114 

He halted quickly enough now, but with one arm raised to 
strike. The girl laughed quietly. 

“You don’t mind me,” she whispered, “not you. But 
Dolly Crassley isn’t the gell to ferget them as has done her a 
turn. You mind the row at the door of the Scorpion, Jack? 
I know you do. Well, it’s my turn now. Hist! you^re wanted — 
an’ there’s a peeler a top of the street.” 

“Wanted? Ah, I might have known it.” He mopped at 
his forehead, standing irresolute. The girl stared. 

“Then w’y are you here?” she questioned. “’Tain’t safe. 
Walk beside me to the turnin’. I’ve got a room there.” 

“I am bound to see some one,” he explained; “I must go 
out ” 

“Someone wot spells miss before ’er name?” she questioned 
swiftly. “Nay, don’t start an’ swear, sonny. I’m not so black 
as I’m painted. It’s nat’ral you should want to see her; but, 
I’m tellin’ you, don’t you go townways. Keep in the dark, 
an’ if there’s lamps about, wait till the fog smothers ’em. How 
did it come about, sonny?” 

“He called me a liar and a thief and I struck him.” 

“Haighl you’re right. You shouldn’t be so strong.” 

They reached the house unseen and the girl pushed him 
within. “Stay there,” she whispered, “while I look round. 
No — they might tear the tongue out of me mouth afore I’d say 
a word to get you took. They don’t love me — I don’t love them. 
They hustle — ^I give ’em the go-bye — stay quiet.” 

She left him standing and passed into the street. From 
somewhere upstairs came the noise of glasses and the pop of 
a drawn cork. A woman laughed and in the ensuing silence it 
seemed that all things happened— capture, trial, judgment, 
yet when the girl returned Elliott acknowledged he still was 
safe. 


THE WOMAN PAYS 


115 

“All clear, she said in answer; “how far are you goin’?’^ 

“Swinfleet.’’ 

“It’s miles — ^goin’ to walk it?” 

“Yes.” 

The girl examined him in the dim light. “I like your 
pluck,” she announced, then after a moment’s hesitation: 

, “ ’Ere — can you bike ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“Got any machine?” 

“Not here.” 

“Right; I’ll find you one. Stay quiet.” 

She left him again and in five minutes returned wheeling 
a cycle. “It’s a gell’s,” she explained, “my chum’s — her wot’s 
laughin’ upstairs. You can ride it, I doubt? She’s as tall 
as you. Good — leave it in this shed when you come back. 
So-long, sonny — aye — fer the sake of wot you done fer me — 
so-long.” 

She touched him on the shoulder and was gone. 

Who was she? No one — worse than no one. Just a tows- 
led young daughter of the gutter in her prime and with as 
keen a hatred of wedlock since her man had left her, as to the 
manner born. An impossible person? Perhaps — ^yet re- 
member the appaling conditions in which she moved. 

Sixteen years of draggle-tailed existence, then marriage. A 
marriage of the slums, carried out in slum fashion with lavish 
supplies of beer. Six months later, brutal usage, desertion, 
motherhood. At the end of twelve, childless and driven to the 
streets for sustenance. Who was she ? This and many other 
things quite impossible of narration. 

Elliott passed on now in full knowledge of the peril in which 
he stood. No longer came those questions which had tor- 
tured him. Dunscombe was dead and he was wanted for the 


ii6 


THE ISSUE 


murder. He moved in a dream. The way was peopled with 
shadows flitting ghost-like to harass him, angling to take him 
unawares. 

Without a light, keeping steadily to the centre of the road he 
passed cautiously through the fog. Once a passenger cross- 
ing the track complained of his unmannerly approach; but 
Elliott swerved wide and held on his way till Riverton and its 
traffic were left behind. Then on — more swiftly now — down 
that highroad which should carry him to Swinfleet; on through 
the grim, dark night, eyes concentrated on the track, ears alert 
for passing carts, head bent, on through the stillness, the raw 
air invigorating him, the soft swish of the tyres inspiring him, 
the picture of Susie standing there before him as a guide — on 
till out of the murk there came the thud of a horse’s hoofs and 
a lantern shone in his eyes. 

“What are you doing without lights, eh?” came the question 
to annoy him. Then with a swift turn the horseman was 
passed and Elliott riding for freedom. 

“Halt there, in the King’s name!” sounded from the rear- 
ward veil of fog. “Halt! I say.” 

The constable had turned and was riding to overtake him. 
The hoof sounds came up to Elliott now with the rythmic 
swing of a gallop. He would be ridden down at that pace. A 
stone in the road, a ruck, and he would be at his enemy’s mercy 
— he who was wanted, and for whom they searched. 

In a moment he swerved, slowed and drew up beside the 
hedge. The horseman passed on swearing. 

Then again in the silence, swiftly pushing his machine, Elliott 
doubled on his tracks, came round to a bye road and rode once 
more for Swinfleet. So, onward, till the lane widened, the 
trees fell away and the glare from the cottage loomed yellow 
close at hand. 


THE WOMAN PAYS 


117 

A girl stood near the uncurtained window — Susie waiting 
for him and straining her eyes in the fog. The light from the 
lamp shone on her red-gold hair. He sprang from his machine, 
unlatched the gate and entered. Susie started at his approach 
and screened her eyes. 

“Oh, it^s Jack — it^s Jack!’’ she cried. And in a moment, 
despite his signal for caution, the door was thrown wide and 
Susie lay in his arms. “My darling,” she whispered. “How 
late you are and how wet!” 

“Hist, deary!” 

“Why? There’s no one here, only me. And I have been 
waiting for you — waiting. Do you understand ? Aunty’s 
out — listening to uncle, who is on the village council, you know, 
and I am all alone. So horribly alone. Come in, dear heart, 
come in.” 

He glanced over his shoulder, staring into the fog he had 
escaped. “Turn down the light, Susie, and draw the curtains 
— else I can’t.” 

She watched him with a quizzical glance, half of laughter, 
half of coquetry. “Can’t? Silly boy. Why, who do you 
think will be spying on us in this quiet place? But you shall 
have your way.” She entered the room, drew the curtains, 
extinguished the lamp and returned. “There, will that do? 

Is it dark enough — dark enough for you to see to Jack, 

dear,” she continued drawing back and looking in his face, 
“do you know — that you have forgotten to — to ” 

Her lips framed for kisses quivered beneath his own. He 
caught her to him, folding her in his arms with a passion that 
was terrible to remember and his cry rang out: “Oh God! 
my lass, my lass!” 

She turned to him now and stood smoothing back his hair. 
That something was wrong she knew intuitively. She kissed 


ii8 


THE ISSUE 


him on the lips. “What is it, dear?” she begged, “tell me — 
tell me.” 

He blurted the thing, his face buried in her hair. “There 
is trouble in the wind, Susie, and I ” 

“Then we must meet it,” she reminded him. 

“TTg can’t, Susie — it’s me — me.” 

“In a few days we shall be one,” she decided flushing. 

“I daren’t wait for that. If we are to be married — if you 
still want me when you know — we must be married at once. 
Somewhere — God knows where.” 

She shook back her hair and smiled. The Are light fell on 
a face as white as the blouse she wore, yet she smiled. “If — 
if — what have I done. Jack, to make you doubt me? When 
I know — and if! Jack, what is it?” 

“I’m wanted, lass. Wanted.” 

The words were said but she looked at him no wiser. 
“Wanted, Jack?” 

“ Aye. Understand me — this is no paltry business, nothing 
to snivel over and done with. It’s trouble — big and definite 
Susie — Dunscombe’s dead.” 

Silence ensued; cold, torturing, pregnant with sorrow. Jack 
holding the girl close, holding her crushed, Susie looking up 
and striving in the darkness to read his eyes. At length she 
spoke: “Dunscombe dead? Well, what has that to do with 
us?” 

“I struck him, Susie — I ” 

“Oh! but Jack, Jack! I’ll not believe it. I will not believe 
it — you didn’t try — that is ” 

“No, no! As God is my witness I meant to hit him. I 
meant to knock him down if I could. Why? Because he 
called me a liar and a thief. Those were his words and I laid 
him out.” 


THE WOMAN PAYS 


119 


“My darling — I knew it.” She had come through darkness 
into light. Her eyes gleamed. She clung to him caressing 
his brow with one hand, but she clung trembling. 

“It was all about a bit of pluck I gave your father,” he ex- 
plained; “it happened some time ago. How he knew of it 
passes me by. But he did know — and I must run if I am to 
marry you — understand?” 

“Wait,” she begged. “Tell me . . . let me think.” 

He complied, speaking fast and with a nervous insistence 
that was painful to hear: “As you will. This is what hap- 
pened. It^s a month ago — more. I’m lying on the tide wait- 
ing for a job when the T antalus came driving past. She doesn’t 
steer as handy as she did and the old man looks like driving 
ashore on the Nore. We weren’t twenty yards away. It’s 
dead calm. And I dropped under the bow and plucked her 
into deeper water. There was never any question of towing, 
or payment — and now the Guv’nor looks me in the face and 
says I squared it — took a crown from the old man and never 
reported it. 

“What did I say? Psh! I was mad — I was mad. He 
had given me jaw before he broke ground over this. I told 
him it was a lie. Then he said he would prosecute me and 
called me a liar and a thief. That’s what passed, as God is 
my Judge.” 

“I knew it, darling. You are not to blame.” 

; “But I’m wanted, Susie — and I must run.” 

“Why? Surely, surely it is better to face it.” 

“I daren’t — not if we are to be married. It may take 
months if once I give up — I might be locked up a year; it 
would be a jury case — assizes and all the rest.” 

“Jack! you must face it.” 

The girl was white to the tips of her ears. She clung to him 


120 


THE ISSUE 


now, her lips quivering, her arms twined about his neck. He 
strove for release. The helplessness of his position assailed 
him and he broke out passionately: 

“Don’t make it harder, lass. Better let me go. I’ve got 
the luck of the devil — the luck of the devil. Chuck me. Tell 
me you never want to see me again, and I’ll walk in and face 
them. Face them and let them prove what they will 

“Jack! I love you — I love you!” 

“Men call me by an ugly name,” he groaned; “there’s none 
worse.” 

“You are my husband,” she whispered still holding him. 

“Your husband’s life isn’t worth the snuff of a candle, Susie. 
Look it square in the face. Suppose they found extenuating 
circumstances — how does that better me? It’s manslaughter 
then — that any good to me or you? Better hang and have 
done with it — better ” 

“Don’t — don’t. My darling!” she cried in a passion of 
tears. 

“God love you!” he faltered, the sight of her agony stifling 
him. “Hold on. I’m wrong. I had no right to tell you that; 
it might never come. But, Susie, it’s what I’ve got to face and 
if we are to be married first, I must run. There’s no other way 
of doing it. Is there?” 

She clung to him, hiding her face on his shoulder. She 
shook her head, but she sobbed more quietly. 

“Susie,” he went on, “we must be married — must,” he 
reiterated, taking her by the arms and looking into her face. 
“I must get across the water. Susie, I’m quitting Riverton 
to-night by the only way left open. By river. I have no other 
chance — the patrols are out, the police are after me — met me 
coming here; but to-morrow I’ll be across if I have to row 
every mile of the way. I know Antwerp, Havre, Dieppe — any 


THE WOMAN PAYS 


121 


of them will suit my book — and then we can talk about facing 
it ” 

She put up her hand and checked him. “You will take me, 
Jack?’^ she whispered. 

“I can’t, lass. Not to-night. It’s impossible.” 

The girl restrained her tears. She pushed him from her 
and stood there white and drooping. “Go, darling,” she 
begged. “ Go. I must not keep you — go, while I am strong.” 

“I will write from foreign, Susie. Letters to Riverton post 
office — ^you understand?” 

She nodded gravely, her face in shadow. 

“You shall follow me out, dear. I’ve got some money. 
I’ll write about it. Susie, I must go — I must go.” 

They stood a moment locked in each other’s arms, then Susie 
drew back. “God bless you. Jack,” she faltered. 

“God love you, lass.” 

Night received him. 


f 




Part 111 

Cde Eltiet of Hife 


CHAPTER I 
Inquisitorial 

T hree days fog, then a gale of wind. This was the 
order of things, and the day of the gale was also the 
day of the inquest. 

The pier hotel was crowded, the air reeking with the odour 
of strong tobacco and mixed drinks. Outside the wind howled 
without ceasing, the river combed savagely on the flood, and, 
at high water, sloshed over the sea-wall and fell in columns of 
spray on the seats before the hotel. Upstairs, in a long and 
low-ceiled room, sat the Coroner and his Court and before them 
stood or lounged a group of eager listeners, water-side folk 
with one exception — ^Tony Crow. 

A dreary business done on a dreary day in the old, stupid 
fashion so dear to the hearts of Englishmen, was in full swing. 
Micky Doolan was there, Win’bag Saunderson, the black- 
smith, the mate who had rowed Elliott ashore in the fog, the 
skipper of the barge which lay that night aground — all were 
there, and all had spoken after their diverse fashions. Elliott 
alone was missing. Where was this man, Elliott? All the 
evidence turned on Elliott — who knew anything of his move- 
ments? Apparently, no one. 


123 


124 


THE ISSUE 


His landlady, described in the generic term ‘‘old woman, 
spoke in whispers as she related incidents bearing on nothing 
in particular and with the accompaniment of gross circumlocu- 
tion. Perhaps only one or two facts were noticeable in her 
remarks: they bore on Elliott’s good nature. He was a good 
lad, there was no two ways about that. He never troubled no 
one; he was always kind and regular; likewise his reckonin’ was 
paid on the nail. He left home a Sunday mornin’, sayin’ he 
was bound away to a job on the river. Since that she had not 
set eyes on him. 

His mate spoke to the fact that there was no Job on the river 
on Sunday — ^he minded it, because he was on board with his 
wife that day, who, bein’ new-married, wanted to see the boat. 
He never set eyes on the skipper all day. Yaas, he rowed 
him ashore on Saturday night. It was as thick as peas puddin’ ; 
he knew that for he was nigh on three hours findin’ his road 
back to the tug — but he heard the row on the wall. Least- 
ways, part of it he heard — not all. Yaas, it was Dunscombe 
the row was with. 

The skipper of the barge testified in similar fashion but am- 
plified his remarks by stating more particularly the details of 
the row. Damning evidence, every word. 

Micky Doolan spoke also to the finding, with a tongue which 
tripped sadly after his recent debauch. He knew every sen- 
tence by heart and told it with great reluctance. But they 
dragged it from him bit by bit, and at length he was ordered, 
with some asperity, to stand down. 

The evidence stood solid, unutterably solid, damning for 
Elliott. Only Tony Crow of all the bunch had ventured any 
extended refutation of the exultant police testimony, and he 
naturally was looked upon with suspicion. 

“ What did he knaw abaht it ? No so much — but he had had 


INQUISITORIAL 


12 $ 


eexperience o* keekin^ an’ wi’ their gude leaves, yon was dun 
wi’ nowt but clogs. How did he knaw? He’didn’t knaw; but 
eexperience had taught Tony mony things. Were ah there? 
Na — ah were not there — ah were at t’ smeethy. ” 

Why then was he occupying the time of the court ? 

‘‘Because ah have ma doots.” 

“Doubts! Who ever heard of such twaddle. Doubts are 
not evidence. Stand down. ” 

So the tall, simple-hearted blacksmith stood down, and 
twisted his cap monotonously as he listened. The Coroner 
now addressed the jury, and the jury having agreed without 
any further inquiry into the mythical region of Tony’s doubts, 
the inquest was adjourned and the police once more breathed 
freely. They recognised that their case was won, a desider- 
atum as all men are ready to acknowledge, therefore it was 
only in the nature of things that they should show an exultant 
face. 

All this was done on the day of the gale, succeeding the fog, 
within sound of the wailing horns on the river, amidst the 
blather and spume of an angry Thames, some half-mile distant 
from the ditch with its stagnant water and ugly crimson stains. 
And the business of the hotel was amazingly brisk. For in- 
quests are productive of talk, of speculation, of an inquisitive 
tribe of men ; and these things, in turn, are productive of smoke 
and the guzzling of some astonishingly bad liquor. 

It fell so on this occasion: and on the day of the adjourned 
inquiry, the memory of the people who sold was ransacked, in 
vain for an equally propitious event. 

On this day a verdict of wilful murder was returned against 
Elliott, and Tony Crow went back to the smithy a wrathful 
and discredited man. 

But the hero of all this clack had vanished. 


CHAPTER II 


Sutcliffe’s Return 

A FOG was growing as the Tantalus drove slowly to her 
berth at the foot of the Reach which winds past 
quiet Abbeyville. George Sutcliffe navigated her, gave 
orders to her meagre crew, steered, and from time to time 
stared out under the foot of the mainsail to discover in the blur 
of smoke and fog lying over the village, that trim girl form 
which never yet had failed to welcome him. 

He was hungry always, on these homeward trips, for the first 
glimpse of his daughter. He looked for her presence — but 
to-day Susie had not appeared at the foot of the little garden. 
Therefore, for some reason, she had not expected him, and 
had remained at home. His wife also would be at home. But 
Sutcliffe did not think of his wife — he thought only of Susie. 

He was a tall man, slightly bent in form, wearing the curly, 
and now iron-gray, ringlets of the old-time coasting skipper, 
beneath his blue-peaked cap. He had the air of one who has 
struggled and has been quite effectually beaten. His second 
marriage had brought into his eyes the look one sees in the 
face of all sufferers. He no longer had hope. He moved in 
a circle of events each of which might end matters without 
warning. Indeed, had it not been for Susie he would have 
sunk beneath the fierce waters and moved to that long home 
of his, unsorrowfully. 

But the girl was a link with the past which no stretched 
misery could sever. The thought of her pretty face and win- 

126 


SUTCLIFFE’S RETURN 


127 


ning child-ways, buoyed him on his voyage and tied him to the 
old home, as frequently a baby voice and innocent laughter 
will tie man to the impossible. 

Meanwhile the brig arrived at her anchorage. Sutcliffe 
saw her moored, landed and went up the pier. He decided 
mentally that Susie must, for some reason, be at the vicarage. 
Then, as he walked the village street, giving ‘‘What cheer, 
skipper,” and “What ho, mate,” to one and another of his 
acquaintances, he noticed how the people standing gossiping at 
their doors, turned to watch him as he passed. 

There had been a time when this would have caused him to 
pause, but not now. In these days he was accustomed to 
trouble and now he failed to connect their behaviour with 
himself in any way. Besides, since his second marriage, he 
had learned that silence is discretion; that to see, and not to see, 
is sometimes wisdom. 

He stepped across the little garden and stood in the doorway 
of his home. It was dreary and silent. Out in the back, he 
caught the sound of scrubbing, and the click of iron-ringed 
pattens — signals unmistakable, to Sutcliffe, that his wife was 
on the war path. He shut the door quietly and, entering the 
kitchen, sat down in the dismal light of a flickering oil lamp 
to smoke his pipe. Susie must certainly be at the vicarage. 
His pipe was a solace. 

But he was not long left in peace. The odour of burning 
tobacco found its way outside. Mrs. Sutcliffe offered many 
resentful remarks to the neighbouring back yards, then, unable 
to locate the nuisance, opened the kitchen door and looked in. 

Sutcliffe smoked on without speaking. 

“Lawd!” cried the woman with emphasis; “wot a skear 
you give a person with your pipes an’ smoke an’ filth. When 
did you come in?” 


128 


THE ISSUE 


“A while ago.” 

“How long’s that?” 

“Not so long.” 

“Not so long! Haigh! hear ’im. Lissen to ’im. Here he 
is at ’ome — sittin’ still as a stuffed hog, an’ all the world a 
gapin’ at him.” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe bustled energetically about the room dusting 
and reversing the order of the furniture. Her husband smoked 
in silence. 

“ ’Deed,” she went on, with a pause of infinite scorn as she 
viewed her partner’s bald head, “ ’Deed, but there’s no fule 
like an old fule. Lawdl if I were a man I wouldn’t sit down 
an’ twiddle me thumbs. I’d ack — that’s wot I’d do. ” 

Several sniffs followed this assertion. They were the only 
sounds in the kitchen for some minutes. Outside the wind 
moaned without ceasing and the river broke sorrowfully on the 
foreshore. But Sutcliffe’s eyes were shut. 

“Cells is like calves,” his wife continued argumentatively. 
“You must ring ’em if you want to lead ’em. That’s wot I say, 
an’ it’s wot I’d do with every lass risin’ seventeen, if I ’ad my 
way. Why would I?” she asked in a querulous treble, al- 
though her husband had made no remark. “Because Satan 
goeth about like a roarin’ lion, Capting Sutcliffe, seekin’ whom 
he may devour. It’s .writ in the Book, an’ Mr. Slowboy 
brought it before us last Sunday most forcible. Sometimes 
Satan taketh untoe himself the form of a young man with a 
black mastache, an’ great is the fall thereof. ” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe’s reminiscences of Bible lore, taken from the 
lips of this spectacled divine, who eschewed clerical garments 
and boldly preached in his work-a-day clothes, had no effect 
on the old man. He was accustomed to pulverised versions of 
Holy Writ. They had been launched at his head frequently 


SUTCLIFFE’S RETURN 


129 


during some fifteen years of married life, and had become 
innocuous from iteration. He continued to smoke stolidly. 
His wife came across the kitchen and stood before him sniffing. 

Now there is something very exasperating in a sniff, judi- 
ciously administered, and with proper accentuation. The old 
man opened his eyes, took his pipe from his lips and said, “ Shut 
it. Missis. ” 

“I won’t shut it,” the woman returned, quickly mollified at 
the effect of her battery; “ I ain’t goin’ to shut it. W’y here’s 
Capting Saundisson, as good a man as ever stepped, willin’ to 
marry the gell, or, says he, ‘Pay me that fif-ety pound you owe 
me.’ Though, p’raps ’ee won’t feel that way — egspecially 
now.” 

Sutcliffe woke up at once, eyeing this plotter with impatience. 
“What do you mean?” he cried. 

“A-h-h-h-h!” said Mrs. Sutcliffe dolorously. 

“Hold your noise I” he returned. “I won’t have the lass 
worried. Lumme! you make a big song about your God- 
fearin’ an’ your chapel-goin’, but you’re worse than a bloomin’ 
Turk, an’ so’s Saunderson if he thinks I’m goin’ to sell the lass.” 

“Owe no man anything,” cried Mrs. Sutcliffe austerely. 

“Blatherskites!” 

“No, George, not blatherskites, nor any other heathenish 
worrud. It’s ondecent, it’s on-christian. Tell me where you 
find it writ? It’s not in Gawd’s ’Oly Book. It’s an infidel 
worrud — a worrud as you have picked up amongst the Turks 
an’ other naked seviges.” 

The old man watched her with weary eyes. 

“It’s almost a pity we can’t pick up some other of their 
customs whiles we are about it,” he said. 

“An’ wot might they be?” Mrs. Sutcliffe questioned with a 
sniff of intense interest; for she, like many other estimable 


THE ISSUE 


130 

females, evinced keen interest in scandalous revelations. They 
gave her the opportunity of tasting emotions to which, other- 
wise, she was a stranger, and enabled her, also, to air her own 
peculiar morality with fitting diatribes. 

^‘They chuck old wimmen an’ them as has tongues, into the 
Bos’prus,” said Sutcliffe with a far away gleam of merriment. 
‘‘That’s what they do. Missis.” 

“Haigh!” shrieked Mrs. Sutcliffe, but standing severely 
still. “Haigh! how long, O Lawd! How long! Haigh! an’ 
to think it’s come to this after fifteen years of scrudgin’ ; fifteen 
years of slavin’. George Sutcliffe,” she continued slowly, and 
shaking a prophetic forefinger at her silent lord and master, 
“the day will come when you’ll be sorry for them worruds — 
an’ will say ” 

“Oh Lord! give us a rest,” sighed the old man wistfully. 
“If this isn’t as bad as a gale o’ wind in a leaky ship — as the 
sayin’ is — I don’t know.” 

“There is no peace, saith my Gawd, fer the wicked,” said 
his wife. 

Captain Sutcliffe rose from his chair. The fire had gone 
out, so also had his pipe. The paraffin lamp burnt low, with 
a gurgling noise in its throat. The house was pervaded with 
an atmosphere of bickering and misery, impossible to dis- 
associate from the figures of forlorn weariness and nagging the 
two presented. 

“I’m goin’ out,” said the Captain, moving towards the door. 

“You’d best not.” 

“What’s to hinder me?” 

“Susie.” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe’s voice dropped. Her husband stood in the 
doorway watching her with angry eyes. 

“Susie?” he cried. “What do you mean? T’hell wiv you 


SUTCLIFFE’S RETURN 


131 

an’ your naggin’— you’ll drive a man mad. Wheer’s the 
lass?” 

*‘Gone.” 

“Gone — wheer to?” 

“To her lover, likely as not.” 

Sutcliffe closed the door and sfood confronting her with a 
new sternness. 

“What do you mean? Speak straight, wumman!” he 
rapped out. “Do you hear me — wheer’s the lass?” 

“I turned her out. I could do nothin’ else. All the vil- 
lage is talkin’ of her an’ her disgraceful goin’s on. I won’t 
’ave it in my house.” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe’s courage returned now the worst was said. 
The sound of her own voice acted as an incentive; she tossed 
her head sniffing aloud in self- justification. 

“You turned — the lass out? Out . . . of . . . 
your house. All the village . . . is . . . talkin’ of 

her. You — what did you do, wumman?” 

“I turned her out — that’s wot I did, George. I speak it 
plain, don’t I?” 

“You . . . turned out . . . t’lass?” The old man 
spoke now in a slow, dazed fashion, as though repetition were 
necessary to enable him to grasp the horrid truth. “You 
turned out . . . my lil Susie? Is that it. Missis?” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe quailed beneath his stern, set face, and shrank 
backward into the room. She was entirely unused to the sound 
of anger. For years she had ruled this house with the terror 
of her tongue, and even now lashed out at the whisper of 
restraint. 

“The gell’s no better than she ought to be,” she retorted, 
hoping by a show of spirit to regain her ascendancy. But her 
judgment was awry; this last taunt was too much for the old 


132 


THE ISSUE 


man. He caught her by the throat, shaking her to and fro in 
his still powerful grip. 

“You lie — ^you — ^you wumman! You lie, he shouted. “T’lass 
is pure as the angels — pure as Gawd^s holy angels. It’s you — 
wumman — ^you who ain’t fit to hold a candle to her. Wheer 
is she gone? Tell me that you — ^you croakin’, squawkin’ 
gospel-puncher. Wheer is she gone ? ” 

In an access of rage he flung her from him and sat down on 
the bench near the door, trembling like a child. 

Mrs. Sutcliffe cowered on the floor. “When thine enemy 

smiteth thee,” she groaned, “turn thou ” 

“Have done, wumman ! You an’ your Bible. Have done ! ” 
Sutcliffe shouted as he rose and stood over her. “You’ve been 
the curse of my life — the curse of my life — do you hear? For 
years you’ve come betwixt me an’ peace. Susie is all that’s 
kept me here . . . an’ now . . . an’ now she’s gone. 

My Gawd! she’s gone, an’ I go too. Wumman — wumman! 
do you know what this means to me ? ” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe dragged herself towards him, scared at the 
novelty of his stern, hard tones. 

“George,” she moaned; “George, I’ve tried to do my duty 

by the gell. I’ve tried ” 

Sutcliffe broke in without remorse. 

“It means a little worrud o’ four letters, wumman. A 
worrud you’re over fond of slingin’ about you. It means Hell — 
an’ nothin’ else. Before it was Hell tempered wiv Heaven. 
Now it’s the whole bottomless pit, wiv never a gleam of light. 
Do you understand? Am I plain, wumman? That is what 
it means to — to George Sutcliffe.” 

He stood fingering the latch, ready to go. “She wanted 
help,” he continued; “you give her worruds. She wanted 
guidance; you give her argiments. She wanted love; you 


SUTCLIFFE’S RETURN 


133 


give her tex’s, an’ thought I were none the wiser. Lord! Lord! 
it’s a cold, harrd worrld. A crewl worrld, an’ I must see about 
findin’ her. My lil’ Susie — my lil’ Susie.” 

He lifted the latch. “I think you understan’ me,” he said, 
pausing on the threshold. “I think I’ve put it straight, as the 
sayin’ is?” 

Mrs. Sutcliffe made no response. She lay in a heap on the 
floor, weeping silently. 


CHAPTER III 


The Search 

S UTCLIFFE stepped out into the street and stood look- 
ing about him. 

Where should he go; how hide the misery gnawing 
at his vitals; how carry himself erect before the gaping village? 
How? Thank God, the fog had fallen; the steaming yellow 
mist was a pillar of cloud to the forlorn old man plodding, with 
stern eyes, towards the park. Again, where should he go? 
Which way of all the multitude should he take ? In wLich, of 
all the teeming townlets, commence his search? There are 
70,000 people hereabout; 70,000 — think of it, and Susie some- 
where hid among them. Pshaw! where should he begin? In 
Abbey ville — her own village? Chut! foolishness; she would 
not be there, or the wagging gossips would have brought him 
news. At his sister’s ? Impossible — she would have sent him 
word. At Shornecombe — the Httle village near which Jack 
Elliott lived? Absurd, impossible; for that would but give 
colour to his wife’s suspicions. At Riverton, Salcombe, Tunley, 
any of a score of places up or down the line? Maybe — but 
where should he begin? 

A cart rumbled heavily down the village street behind him. 
He stood aside to let it pass. A great white miller’s waggon 
emerged from the fog, and four steaming dapple-grey horses, 
in the full, jingling panoply of burnished harness, drew past. 
A Riverton cart — no other. Chance decided it. He would 
go to Riverton. Riverton had police who might help him. 

134 


THE SEARCH 


135 


Help him to what? To find Susie? Impossible. He could 
not tell them she was gone. As soon would he dream of climbing 
up beside yon vanishing miller, and lay his heart bare — im- 
possible, all impossible. 

So he trudged on through the fog, his brain quick with hopes, 
fears, thoughts, phantasies; quicker than he ever remembered 
in all the gray misery of those years which had rolled so slowly 
since Lucy’s death. Thus he came to the top of the alley, and 
struck out down the highroad, going towards Riverton. 

“On a job like this, as the sayin’ is,^’ he repeated aloud. 
“On a job like this. I’ll walk — an’ walk — an’ walk. Maybe 
if I walk long enough, and look. I’ll find the lil’ lass. Maybe I’ll 
find her so. ” 

Morning saw him still afoot, quietly plodding the streets 
of Riverton and visiting from house to house. All his acquaint- 
ances met him in turn that day. Now he would knock at a door, 
and entering slowly, would glance around for signs of the lass, 
and seeing none, would sit down a while to chat in his kindly 
fashion with the inmates. 

“A cold blow, skipper,” was the formula did he chance on 
one of his own sex and calling. “The fog will rise wiv the sun 
belike — ^your opinion, skipper ? Ah, so I thought — so I thought. 
Must have been a power of trouble on the river, as the sayin’ is, 
a night like this. Indeed, indeed, you’re right. I am well in 
out of it. Only just in time though. The Tantalus is like 
her skipper — gettin’ old, mate; old an’ slow. She’s not what 
she was in ‘stays,’ not by chalks. Can’t be sure which way 
she’ll come — like us all, mate; like us all. ” 

At some houses the children would trot out to greet him. 
Then he was at his best. “What ho! sonny,” he would say, 
“that’s the time of day, is it? An’ how goes the schoolin’ 
— don’t love it? No — ah, there’s a brave boy, on to my 


136 


THE ISSUE 


knee an’ look about you. Now in that pocket of yours 
— what’s in it ? Marbles, I’ll go bail. An’ a top — an’ a lump 
o’ chalk. Lumme! I might have known it. We’re all alike 
— fair copies of each other, aren’t we. Missis?” 

“ Eigh ! for the day when we were young. No bigger troubles 
than the lack of apples, sugar an’ the like. Happy days. 
Missis. Eigh! but you should have seen my lil’ Susie in those 
days. When I come home from a voyage, there she is, standin’ 
on top of the sofy — lookin’ down the street for daddy. My 
worrd I was proud those times. Oh! I was proud. Never 
home wivout some fal-lal for the lil’ lass, something bright an’ 
pretty as she’d cotton to, and tuck away wiv her little fists. An’ 
then — on to my foot, ride a cock horse — such a little curly- 
headed imp. An’ the prettiness of her; Lord, the prettiness 
of her! The pictur’ of this lil’ thing of yours, the dancin’, blue- 
eyed, merry monkey. Eigh! the prettiness of her — maybe you 
remember her. Missis?” 

‘‘Not very well? Aye, indeed, we’re a long way separate 
now, an’ it’s expensive travellin’. You haven’t set eyes on her 
some while I’m sure. No? Ah, I might have known it — 
indeed I might have known it. ” 

After this the conversation always flagged, the old man’s 
face grew grayer and the children ceased to interest him. Then 
he would seek for an opportunity to escape, and having found it, 
trudge slowly to the next stopping place; and thus, at length, 
he came upon some news. 

Which friend had told him, he did not know; whether in the 
street or house, he cared nothing. Someone had seen the lass 
in Abbeyville. In her own village. It seemed absurd; still, 
the words had been spoken and to Abbeyville Sutcliffe was 
going. 

The trains were late; all traffic was uncertain by reason of the 


THE SEARCH 


137 


fog. The evening was well advanced ere he reached his 
destination, the village blacksmith’s home. 

Tony Crow was the village blacksmith; a great and brawny 
six-footer, with the chest and arms of a Hercules, the limp legs 
of a Mexican cow-boy, the face of a prize-fighter, and the soul 
of a little child for innocence. 

Tony Crow’s wife was the last to see the lil’ lass in Abbey- 
ville. So much the old man had gleaned. Now he crossed 
the muddy road and stood beside the door knocking to gain 
admittance. This place was not Riverton, and here, he had 
scant need for secrecy. His question went straight home as he 
paused on the threshold: 

“The Missis has seen my lil’ Susie?” 

The blacksmith threw wide the door and gripped him by 
the hand. “Socks!” he cried, “so ah’m bearin’. Missis! it’s 
Cap’n George. Eigh! but you look weary — set dahn, man — 
set dahn. ” 

“The lil’ Lass, Missis,” Sutcliffe reiterated turning directly 
to the wife and ignoring the preferred hospitality. 

“Law, Capting, don’t look like that. Come in an’ rest. I’ll 
tell you all I know. ” 

“Aye, that’s good of you. Missis. You see I’m up a bit 
early — the lass didn’t expect me yet; an’ there bein’ this bother, 
as the sayin’ is, why there it is. ” 

“Law, yes — a course. It’s easy to see how the mistake 
come about. You bein’ at sea so much, an’ Susie without any 
sort o’ ” 

“ But you’ve seen her. Missis ? ” Sutcliffe questioned, unheed- 
ing her ponderous explanation. 

“Tell Cap’n George wheer you see her,” cried Tony Crow 
with boisterous effusion. “Socks! that’s what he wants t’be 
at.” 


THE ISSUE 


138 


“I’m cornin’ to it, Tony, surelie. Didn’t I tell you all about 
it, an’ Mrs. Slowboy, the passon’s wife. You know I did. 
Capting, I’m cornin’ through the pawk in the evenin’ when I 


Sutcliffe stopped her with a gesture. 

“Which evening. Missis? Do you happen to know which 
evening ? ” 

“Was it three days agone, Tony — or four or five days agone ? ” 

“Eigh! the wumman!” 

“It must have been a week, Capting. Lawst Friday week 
as was; for I mind I’m cornin’ back through the pawk from 
seein’ Mrs. Timses’ baby, as is that weak an’ pulin’ as never 
was, though the cause ain’t hid under a ton o’ bricks, as maybe 
you know, Capting. An’ I see someone sittin’ on the sea-wall. 
A gell it was. Your gell, Capting. I know becose I crossed 
the grass an’ spoke to her. ‘Waitin’ fer someone ?’ I says. ‘No,’ 
she says. ‘It’s gettin’ damp, Susie,’ I says. ‘I know it,’ she 
says; ‘I’m cornin’ home direckly.’ 

“I left her then, Capting — an’ when I look back through the 
pawk gates, she’s still there, sittin’ up agenst the skyline on the 
sea-wall — an’ that’s the lawst as anyone see of her. ” 

The skipper’s face had fallen. A gray pallor crept over 
the tan as he listened. He stayed to put one more question. 

“You didn’t say anythin’ else, maybe?” 

“Nary a word, Capting. I had no call to.” 

“Thank you. Missis. ” 

George Sutcliffe moved stifSy towards the door. 

“I think I’ll be movin’ on, ” he said. “I’m obliged for what 
you’ve told me. You see I’ll be havin’ a letter from her to- 
morrow. She don’t expect me before then. It’s useless 
worryin’, on a job like that, as the sayin’ is. ” 

“Stay an’ have a sup o’ grub, Cap’n,” said Tony, who was 


THE SEARCH 


139 


quite aware of the whole circumstances. “ Stay an’ have a sup, 
an’ a poipe, there’s a man. ” 

But Sutcliffe was already on the steps preparing to resume 
his search. He turned at the sound of the blacksmith’s invita- 
tion. 

“Nay, I must be movin’ on. I’ve arranged for a place in 
Riverton, wheer I’m shiftin’. Susie is goin’ to live wiv me 
there. You see, the lil’ lass is better eddicated than me 
. . . an’ the wife. She didn’t — they didn’t ezactly hit it off. 
I think I’ve put it straight, Tony, as the sayin’ is. I think 
you understand me — a job like that ? ” 

He closed the door he had held behind him, and moving 
slowly, came into the road. 

“The lil’ lass!” he moaned. “The lil’ lass — wheer shall I 
find her?” 

Once more he was alone with his misery. Once more the 
gray fog-blanket wrapped his movements in seclusion. Once 
more the street echoed to his tread as he headed wearily down 
the village. He passed the smithy, the beer house at the corner, 
and came to the pier where he had landed twenty-four hours 
earlier. 

“Eigh! the crewl, hard worrld — the crewl, cold worrld!” 
The words fell without volition as he searched for a place 
where he might sit down to think. 

The door of the piermaster’s sail loft stood ajar. A good 
room wherein to shelter from the damp, dull fog. The pier- 
master’s retriever lay chained and growling furtively at the 
entrance. 

“Jacob! Jacob — good dog. Lie down, old son. It’s me — 
it’s me. ” He passed in quietly, the dog wagging an effusive 
welcome. He sat down to think. 

“That string’s broke,” he whispered, leaning forward with 


140 


THE ISSUE 


his hands about the dog’s neck. ‘‘Eh, Jacob, old boy, the old 
man’s weary — weary of life. The HP lass — my HP Susie, as 
used to tuck her Httle fists about your neck, Jacob — she’s 
gone, an’ Gawd alone knows where to find her. ” 

Sutcliffe’s head sank low on his arms, the dog moaned in 
sympathy; then the piermaster came to close the door, and 
silence reigned unbroken. 


CHAPTER IV 


Saunderson Plays a Trump 



GAIN a solitary figure plodding the quiet roads and 


^ ^ tortuous lanes. Another day. Muggy skies, steam- 
ing hedgerows, dripping trees, mud, slush — image, the 
country Swinfleet way. 

A silent figure, somewhat bent, clad in dark blue cloth and 
peaked blue cap; with straggly, curled ringlets hanging about 
his ears; gray, thin, identical on either side, a cleanshaven face. 
A man with shining, scarred visage, the colour of new ma- 
hogany; a firm, set mouth and sad, gray-blue eyes — image, an 
old-school Thames skipper. George Sutcliffe. 

Sutcliffe on the third day of his wanderings now approaching 
Swinfleet with Susie’s belated letter in his pocket. He might 
have taken train; but to do so he must have waited an hour 
or more. He had grown accustomed to walking and preferred it. 
He was alone thus. The other way meant clacking tongues; 
questions, answers, misery. 

Everyone knew this business; only he denied it. Susie was 
missing; his wife had turned her out; now he sought her. The 
people, the poor people, looked and said, “Aye, it’s easy seen 
there’s been a mistake — the lass is safe no doubt.” Their 
sympathy hurt him. The girl was missing; he knew they 
knew it, but persisted in his silent course working out the prob- 
lem in his own dull fashion. 

Now all that was past. Susie was with her aunt at Swinfleet 
and he was going to meet her. Mud, slush, puddled cart ruts; 


142 


THE ISSUE 


unholy stones waiting to be ground into mother earth ; a shower 
of drops from the trees — “Eh, a breeze cornin’ up. Lawd 
send a clearance of the weather.” 

He plodded on, his eyes bent on the ground; his garments 
splashed and foul; his coat wet, the gray ringlets dripping 
moisture. Hark! A cart approached, tearing through the 
mud with the squirm and splutter of a torpedo boat on the 
measured mile. He glanced around. A cart from Abbey- 
ville — Saunderson the driver. 

“What ho! skipper. Lumme! but this is wonderful luck.” 
The horse was almost on its haunches with the energy of 
Saunderson’s check. Sutcliffe lifted his bent back and looked 
at the big man making room for him to mount. 

“Aye,” he said, “maybe it’s luck — maybe it’s not, a job like 
that. No, I’ll not get up — I’d rather walk.” 

Saunderson did not urge the point. He dismounted instead, 
.and, throwing the reins over his arm, moved on beside the cart. 

“I heard you were out here,” he said, “wiv Susie — an’ so 
I made the best of my way to see you. How’s the lass ? ” 

Sutcliffe paused. His companion immediately brought 
the horse to a standstill, and the two men faced each other. 

“That’s not what you want with me,” Sutcliffe remarked. 
“Speak out — man to man. What is it you do want ? ” 

“You know what it is I’m after — ^you know as well as I do 
that it’s Susie I want. I’ve asked you to help me gain her— 
I’ve done many things for you, an’ I look for some sort of kind- 
ness in return, Man,” he continued, his deep voice rolling 
in the quiet lane, “can’t you see I love her? Can’t you see I 
would give my soul case to have her — do you want me to put 
it all in writin’ — am I to be forever on the beg ” 

Sutcliffe drew himself stiffly upright. He lifted his hand for 
silence. “I look for nothing,” he said, “only that Susie shall 


SAUNDERSON PLAYS A TRUMP 


143 


wed who she loves. If she loves you, then I give her to you; 
without that I will never give you my help.’’ 

‘‘It’s a dangerous game you’re playin’,” Saunderson argued, 
his anger rising. “I could double you up easy as crackin’ 
eggs. I could turn you into the gutter. If I wished I could 
put a light to the old house down by the river an’ burn every 
stick. You couldn’t touch me. It’s mine — mine. Bought 
an’ paid for in hard-earned gold, wiv the savin’s of years, you 
understand?” 

But Sutcliffe did not quail. His thin lips became a trifle 
more compressed, his eyes took a colder gleam. “Aye,” he 
said, “you could do that.” 

“But I don’t want to do it. Lumme! d’you think I’m 
yearnin’ to botch my hand ? I love Susie — an’ I look for your 
help.” 

“Her mother tried to help you — didn’t seem to come off 
though,” Sutcliffe sneered. 

“Her mother’s a fool,” Saunderson retorted. “She’s got 
no tact. Look here, George, I don’t wish to quarrel wiv you — 
it isn’t sense. Stand aside an’ don’t interfere. Give me the 
chance I want, an’ you’ll find me gentle as a kid. Is it a 
bargain ? ” 

“Nay, I can make no bargains, on a job like that. It’s my 
lil’ Susie that has to be consulted, not me. But I don’t mind 
telling you, that if you win her I shall be surprised. Susie 
isn’t a changeable sort; >ou know she’s pledged to Elliott — 
you know it as well as I do.” 

Saunderson stood a moment in thought; his eyes fixed on 
the old man’s face. 

“Aye,” he said, “ so I’ve heard. Well — I must begettin’ back.” 

“You take it as I mean ? ” Sutcliffe questioned. “You under- 
stand I wouldn’t force her?” 


144 


THE ISSUE 


‘‘Yes, I understand.” 

“Then there’s nothing more to be said?” 

“No; it don’t seem like it.” Saunderson fumbled in his 
pocket, staring at the steaming horse as though he expected 
that weary animal could help him with his subject. Then 
again his glance rested on Sutcliffe. 

“You’ve come from Riverton — I s’pose you’ve heard the 
news?” he blurted. 

“About Dunscombe?” 

“No— Elliott.” 

Sutcliffe’s eyes fell. He looked about him in wistful suppli- 
cation. 

“I know nothing,” he said, “’cept that the lass was driven 
from her home. What about him?” 

“They are searchin’ for him down yonder in the town. They 
say he had a hand — in Dunscombe’s murder.” 

“They say what?” 

The question rang in a new tone as Sutcliffe stepped nearer. 
Saunderson repeated the gossip, adding: 

“I know nothin’. I tell you what is said down Riverton 
way — aye, an’ in Abbeyville, too, for that matter. But I tell 
you more. They won’t find him. They will never find him, 
not if they look till Kingdom come.” 

“ What do you mean ? Speak straight man — speak straight.” 

“It’s a thing I always do, George Sutcliffe. But sometimes 
it’s wise to — hedge a bit, as you might say — ’specially when 
you’re speakin’ to the father of the gell he was goin’ to marry. 
It might ease the shock, you see.” 

Sutcliffe made a gesture of impatience. “ Go on,” he cried, 
“go on.” 

“I was down at the pier this mornin’,” Saunderson resumed. 
“They had a boat there — cut in half. It was the boat Jack 


SAUNDERSON PLAYS A TRUMP 


I4S 

Elliott borrowed when he ran from the hounds. There was a 
coat tucked under the thwart — Jack Elliott’s coat; an’ in it 
was a letter. I have it here. Maybe you’ll know the writin’.” 

He held a crumpled, water-stained note towards his com- 
panion. ‘‘Steady!” he said. “I’ve broke it to you. There’s 
no comfort to be got out of it. Jack Elliott’s down the 
cellar.” 

Sutcliffe gripped at the shaft and remained speechless. 
Saunderson -watched him in despair until he opened the en- 
velope; then again he searched his face, but the old man only 
swayed to and fro like one on the verge of suffocation. The 
letter was Susie’s. It was addressed to Elliott — now Elliott 
was dead. Sutcliffe glanced up, a pathetic figure, shrunken, 
weary of battle, full of the anguish of years. He opened his 
lips to speak — ^yet the words said nothing of his torture: “The 
lil’ lass,” he whispered. “Gawd help the HI’ lass.” 

“I brought it to you,” Saunderson explained, “because it 
seemed best for you to break it. George, you are the only one 
that can break it. If I could help, I’d do it willin’ — but I can’t, 
I can’t.” 

Sutcliffe made no response for some minutes, then he ex- 
tended his hand: “I believe you,” he said. “Eight the HP 
lass.” 

Saunderson made no effort to continue the conversation; 
he grasped the proffered hand, remounted his cart, gathered up 
the reins and drove off towards Riverton. The old man 
passed on at once, murmuring as he went: “Eight the HP 
lass! Terr’ble, terr’ble — the crewl, hard worrld.” 

In half an hour he had arrived at the small latticed gate 
Elliott had so recently left. His sister, hearing footsteps, came 
to the porch and looked out. She advanced down the path 
to meet him. 


146 


THE ISSUE 


George!” she cried. “Oh, I’m glad to see you, brother. 
Indeed, I’m glad to see you.” 

Sutcliffe stumbled miserably on the steps. His hand strayed 
aimlessly to meet hers: “How is she?” he whispered. 

“Shockin’, shockin’. Never a smile since that night; scarce 
a word — an’ when me an’ Tom come in, she’s lyin’ on the floor 
like the dead. ” 

“Wheer is she, sister?” 

“Upstairs — sittin’ in the winda, starin’ at the trees.” 

“Take me up. I want to see her. ” 

“Nay, I’ll call her down. Maybe it’ll rouse her. Make 
her cry, George — there’s nothin’ like a cry for cheerin’ one up. 
It will do her more good than all the med’cins in the phar- 
macy. ” 

She bustled to the foot of the stairs; ascended noisily and 
opened the girl’s door. Sutcliffe took off his cap and stood 
looking into the crown. 

“Carey’s wheer I bought it,” he remarked inconsequently; 
“eighteen pence is what it cost.” He hung it carefully against 
the wall where no peg was. The cap slipped to the floor. 
“Lummel” he whispered, glancing around, “I’m goin’ blind 
on a job like that. ” 

The jubilant voice of his sister sounded on the staircase as 
he entered the kitchen. A moment later Mrs. Surridge fol- 
lowed with her arm about the girl’s waist. 

“There you are,” she cried: “Father’s come to see you. 
Go an’ talk, my pretty — there’s nothin’ like talk for cheerin’ 
one up — ’cept maybe a cry. ” The latter was an afterthought 
as she closed the door upon them. 

The girl entered with a stoney gaze that cut Sutcliffe to the 
heart. He moved forward to meet her. 

“My lil’ Susie, ” he whispered. “ My lil’ Susie. ” 


SAUNDERSON PLAYS A TRUMP 


147 


Then, almost before the words had died, she lay in his arms, 
her face pillowed on his breast, sobbing pitifully. 

Late that night when all the household was in bed, Sutcliffe 
paced the room as he would have paced the deck of his vessel 
on a stormy night; but with a different species of trouble chasing 
sleep from his eyes. He had heard of Dunscombe’s death, but 
had not stayed to investigate the matter as others had. The 
news Saunderson had given him, coupled with Susie’s pale 
face and altered manner, struck him a double blow. 

The old man quailed before the miserable sequence of events. 
His thoughts wandered from one anguish to another — Susie’s 
flight, the difficulty with his wife and Saunderson, Dunscombe’s 
murder, and the rumours of Elliott’s guilt, his flight and death. 
Sutcliffe was growing impervious to further torture; he could 
only moan dumbly like an overwhipped slave at the triangles. 
And so, as the dawn peeped in, it found him standing near 
the diamond-paned lattice, holding something aloft and strok- 
ing it tenderly. 

“To think it’s come to this,” he murmured. “Eigh! such 
a bright HP lass — always ready to meet her father an’ tuck 
away the fal-lals he brought her. Such a HP sunbeam. Eight 
the crewl, hard worrld. Strick down just when the old man 
wanted her most. Gawd’s hand, sir? Aye — so I’ve heard, 
so I’ve heard; but, beggin’ to differ, I’m not wiv you — on a job 
like that. ” 

It was a long lock of the girl’s bright hair, a piece cut years 
ago that he was fondling in the growing light. 


CHAPTER V 


Sutcliffe Seeks a Reply 


MAN’S action is never complete in itself. It does not 



die even if he dies of its effect. A man may cut his 
throat — well, there remain results, ramifications passing all 
comprehension, to others. 

To put it plainly, some one must attend the inquest and see 
to the funeral; some one must wind up the estate, if by 
chance there be an estate, and if there be none, some one may 
be compelled to adopt the children — and as a side issue, it may 
not be convenient for some one. We can scarcely place any 
limit to the possibilities in such a case, but we may be very 
sure that we who are left must attend the reckoning. So in this 
matter of Susie and Jack. 

Elliott had acted from a very complete recognition of the 
situation as it faced him in a moment of scare. He had taken 
a definite line of action after consideration of those other actions 
which had so complicated matters, and he had started across 
the water to solemnise as speedily as possible a marriage already 
consummated. He had acted from the highest motives — but 
for some reason it was Susie who would presently have to pay. 

“Heaven never helps the man who will not act,” Sophocles 
tells us, and to that dictum one may be permitted to add, and 
it seldom helps those who do. 

We always pay. In blood, in tears, in some sort we are 
compelled to pay, and we can either stand aside and take it 
smiling, or we can put on the gloves and bend for fighting. At 


148 


SUTCLIFFE SEEKS A REPLY 


149 


present Susie knew nothing of either necessity — but it was at 
hand. 

It banged on the door one afternoon while the family were 
discussing the ramifications. Mrs. Surridge had views on the 
subject, but she also had convictions as to the personality 
behind a commonplace rat-a-plan. She immediately sprang 
from her chair: “That’s a quality knock,” she announced* 
“sakes alive! how’s my collar?” 

Sutcliffe examined the articles in question with a critical eye 
and shook his head: “It’s not so clean as it were,” he said 
“but it’ll pass.” 

But by this time Mrs. Surridge had returned from a peeping 
expedition to the small window in the passage and stood on 
tiptoe before the glass of an American clock ticking gamely 
on the mantelshelf. 

“You’re worse than Tom, George, an’ that’s the truth. 
You open the door while I get straight. It’s the parson come 
over to interfere. I don’t hold with interferin’ in family matters. 
Take him into the parlour an’ talk till I’m ready. ” 

Sutcliffe obeyed, but Surridge made use of the opportunity 
to escape, and it devolved on the skipper to do the honours. 
Mr. Oakley being admitted presently found himself installed 
in a most treacherous chair and Sutcliffe, seated on the extreme 
edge of another, confronting him. The vicar regarded this 
phenomenon, gravely, over raised finger tips spread like an 
inverted V beneath his chin. He seemed to be taking the man 
in as from one situated at an immense distance. It was a 
position crying to the cartoonist for pencil and sketch block. 
But Mr. Oakley had no humour. He was a serious man, thin 
and ascetic, with black hair, large nose, and no chin — one of 
those persons with whom nature has dealt unfairly and who 
deals in commonplace as a result. 


THE ISSUE 


150 

Mrs. Surridge had no opinion of his perspicacity. She ques- 
tioned how any one could know anything of struggles and 
poverty “when he lives in a blessed man-sion an’ has five 
maids to attend his wants beside a fat buttons an’ a long-jawed 
coachman.” His wife, too, troubled Mrs. Surridge more 
than she would readily express. It seemed that “ she got on her 
nervous system,” though how she effected that feat was not 
apparent. 

On this occasion Mrs. Surridge entered the room like a 
gust of wind, and the door snapped behind her. The collar 
and apron she wore bristled with a perfect battery of turrets 
and angles. She appeared as though about to make an onslaught 
on the thin, black-coated form seated there in fear of a break- 
down, but she only extended her hand and said: 

“La! to think it was you, Mr. Oakley,” and after a moment’s 
pause: “I hope you will excuse me for keepin’ you waitin’ — 
but being single-handed one is apt to get caught, as you yourself 
may know. ” 

The vicar smiled. 

“Indeed I do,” he said, “such things often happen, but we 
become used to them — ^as, with God’s help, we become used to 
even greater troubles.” 

Mrs. Surridge sat down and folded her hands across the bat- 
tery. Her society manner was a quaint mixture of reticence 
and boldness. When speaking to her social superior her tongue 
had a knack of finding h’s where none exist — although at other 
times she rarely made a blunder with the aspirate. But now she 
was obviously at a disadvantage. There was a queer tighten- 
ing at the corner of her mouth and a sparkle in her eyes which 
told of an attempt at restraint to which Mrs. Surridge was 
almost a stranger. 

“Hindeed, sir,” she replied, “has we get older we do.” 


SUTCLIFFE SEEKS A REPLY 


151 

“That is not a kind remark,” said the vicar from his im- 
measurable distance, “still, we will not retaliate — for, as far as 
I am concerned, it is more or less true. ” 

Mrs. Surridge smoothed her lap and tried to make amends 
by becoming conversational. “ The weather’s perfeckly awful,” 
she announced, “an’ Tom’s got a litter of young pigs hout in 
the yard. They come Monday week, most tryin’, at twelve 
o’clock hat night. It’s not often hi see Tom put out, but them 
pigs fair made him ache. ” 

The vicar regarded the incident as trivial. He knew nothing 
of pigs and was concerned with a much deeper problem, to wit, 
the rumours current in Abbeyville. He looked up with a sigh 
and said: “Yes, the winter seems to be setting in early. These 
are the equinoctials, I suppose — eh, Sutcliffe?” 

The old man recognised that the question was addressed to 
him. “Maybe that’s what it is, sir,” he said, “but they be 
main damp and muggy.” 

“ Old Moore’s what hi call a prophet,” Mrs. Surridge inter- 
jected at this; “‘some gales an’ much rain,’ is what he puts 
down for the month — an’ we’ve had ’em. But there’s worse 
to come: ‘A crown-ed head will be taken next month an’ the 
level-ooshionary movement his to be follad by dire heffects for 
the capat’lists,’ come October.” 

“Nonsense, nonsense, Mrs. Surridge!” the vicar objected, 
but without a smile. “No one has power to foretell these or 
any events. It is the veriest mockery and should be sup- 
pressed.” 

But the battery reniained undisturbed. 

“Last month,” it asserted breathlessly, “he had ‘trouble 
in the hager-i-cultoral districts an’ scarcity o’ fodder.’ Con- 
sequency is. Farmer Thompson’s killed ’is beasts for want of 
pasture, an’ Tom’s struggles to keep the guv’nor’s sheep, an» 


152 


THE ISSUE 


the trouble with our hown fowls an* pigs was bringin’ him to a 
shadda. If that ain’t proof hi don’t know what is.” 

Mrs. Surridge paused and smoothed the battery with both 
hands, but the vicar perceived his opportunity and stepped 
along at his ease. 

^‘I came,” he said, “to speak on a different question — a very 
delicate question, if I may so express it.” 

“Hi knew it,” said Mrs. Surridge, and sat back defiant in 
her chair. 

“There are some ugly rumours in Abbeyville,” he proceeded, 
and paused. 

“There al-ways is rumours hin a village,” said M!rs. Surridge. 

“But these seem possible. I am sorry to say it — but so it is.” 

“They al-ways is probable — else what’s the good of passin’ 
’em along?” 

“They say,” the vicar proceeded, “that Susie has ” 

“Hi don’t think we need henter into that, eh, brother?” 
Mrs. Surridge snapped, glancing at Sutcliffe for confirmation. 

“No need at all. Susie were driven from home by my wife — 
an’ Susie’s here,” he replied tersely. 

“But, if you prevent me taking the only steps I can to clear 
the girl’s character — don’t you see that you injure her and give 
impetus to the rumour itself. In justice to Susie you should 

yy 

“The whole thing’s a lie,” Sutcliffe broke out with sudden 
passion, “a lie put about by my wife for her own ends. I 
don’t know what those ends are. I don’t ask. I only know 
it’s a lie an’ I won’t have Susie worried to answer.” 

To Sutcliffe the suggestion of refutation was equivalent, per- 
haps, to admission. He had additionally the poor man’s sense 
of distrust in justice, and took the opportunity of expressing it. 

“I suppose,” said the vicar, from that immense distance which 


SUTCLIFFE SEEKS A REPLY 


153 


yawned between them, “I suppose you understand that if 
this is not refuted — sorry as I shall be personally — Susie must 
give up her position at the schools?” 

“That I understand.” 

“And you won’t prevent it — you won’t aid me to clear her 

)f 

“There is nothing to clear,” said Sutcliffe. But the tone 
said more than the words. 

Mr. Oakley seemed to recognise this, for he turned to Mrs. 
Surridge with a deprecatory inflection: 

“Believe me,” he said. “I have no wish to press this matter 
unduly. It was for Susie’s sake I spoke. I have known her 
so long — and now everything must end. Her school life, her 
study, her salary — it is the greatest pity — the greatest pity.” 
He rose and stood leaning against the mantelpiece, a gaunt 
figure in black with narrow eyes and a preposterous nose. He 
looked down upon Mrs. Surridge sitting so ill at ease at his 
feet and marked her labouring breath and air of determination. 
“I hoped,” he said, “to get you to help me, Mrs. Surridge, but 
it seems impossible.” 

“Quite impossible,” came from the pursed lips. “Quite.” 

“And in the other matter?” 

“I don’t know what hit is.” 

“I wish to persuade your brother to go back to his wife — 
will you aid me in this?” 

“I’d as lief not, Mr. Oakley. Capting Sutcliffe his the best 
judge of his own affairs.” 

Mrs. Surridge was on surer ground here. The battery be- 
came more regular in its movements, the lips took a less rigor- 
ous line. “In a gen’ral way,” she went on in explanation of 
her position, “I don’t holt with a man leavin’ his wife or con- 
trairiwise — not so long as they are what you might call hevenly 


154 


THE ISSUE 


matched. But when one or the other has the temper of a 
washerwoman hon a wet day— it’s better to part an’ have done 
with it.” 

<‘Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder,” 
said the vicar solemnly. But he sighed at the dictum. 

Mrs. Surridge flicked the notion to the winds, for she knew 
her brother’s wife both before and after marriage. 

*‘In a gen’ral way, that’s true, sir,” she admitted, “but what 
had the Lord to do with Mary Wyatt marryin’ Capting 
Sutcliffe?” 

“Mrs. Surridge, I think you go farther than you intend. I 
think you ” 

“Not hi,” said the lady, and proceeded to hammer the why. 
“Didn’t she just hogle her way into my brother’s defections? 
Who set her on to that, sir? Pride and laziness — nothin’ 
else.” 

“Not quite as bad as that, sister,” Sutcliffe remarked in his 
slow fashion, the heat all vanished with the new topic. “I 
ask her, you mind.” 

“A course you did. What else could you expect? Why, 
if a woman sets her heart on a man’s home he’s done — he’ve 
got to ask her.” 

“Still,” the vicar persisted, “that is no reason why your 
brother should throw her off. It may be an easy method of 
ridding one’s self of an unpleasant companion; but it is against 
God’s law. Only a certain section of the community permit 
it or condone it. Depend upon it no man can offend the law 
with impunity. It will have fruit, Sutcliffe, it will have fruit.” 

The old man moved restlessly in his chair. He gripped at 
the horsehair cover, sitting balanced on the extreme edge. 
“Sir,” he said, “I’m not good at arguments. I know very 
little about anythin’ bar ships an’ the fag-ends of ship owners. 


SUTCLIFFE SEEKS A REPLY 


155 


but I put it this way — two people can’t run one ship — oetween 
’em they will put her on the rocks; an’ two people can’t pull 
opposite ways at a gell’s strings wi’out harming the gell. That 
I know. I left my wife. Right. Why did I leave her? — 
because we pulled opposite ways. Because she never behaved 
square to the lass. Because of what happened the other night. 

“Sir, ” he went on with grim suggestion of the thing as it 
appeared to him, “is it a mother’s duty to force a gell into the 
streets? Is that what I’m to expect of my wife while I’m 
afloat? Sir, it’s impossible. I’ll never go back.” 

“A man’s a man, sir,” Mrs. Surridge interposed as her brother 
drew breath, “he’s not a hen to he plucked an’ worrited till 
he’s got no feathers to heft.” 

The vicar looked up with a pained expression. He was 
bafiled by the vigour of the defence. “I hoped to induce you 
to side with me,” he said, “but I confess I see no chance of it. 
I must leave the matter to your brother’s conscience.” 

“My brother’s conscience will, I hope, be found flavoured 
with reason,” she returned as the battery showed further signs 
of agitation. “Why — hif I treated Tom as that woman has 
treated Captain Sutcliffe, I should expect to find myself spread 
out to keep the top of a pigsty warm — an’ small blame to Tom 
for chuckin’ me.” 

The vicar smiled. The difficulty of “chucking” Mrs. Sur- 
ridge was so obvious that even the gravity of his cause dis- 
appeared at the suggestion; for Tom was a small man and his 
wife as one of the daughters of Anak. He moved towards the 
door under the new influence. 

“Well, well,” he cried, “I must leave it. I am sorry, for I 
wished to help you and to help Susie — but it seems impossible.” 
He paused hat in hand. And about the banns ?” he questioned. 

“Banns!” Sutcliffe interjected, “what banns?” 


THE ISSUE 


156 

‘‘Susie’s.” 

Sutcliffe started to his feet. “Susie’s banns?” he cried. 
“Do you mean the lass had arranged ” 

Mrs. Surridge interposed with a quiet glance. “I should 
have told you, brother,” she said, “I meant to tell you — but 
the gell bein’ so queer an’ everythin’ so hurried, clean put it out 
of my head. Before she were driven out it was arranged that 
they should be hashed. Susie was to have been wed some time 
after you came home — if so be you had no subjections — but 
bein’ driven out Elliott wanted to take her to Riverton ” 

“EUiottl” 

Sutcliffe swayed unsteadily before them. He stood with 
outstretched hands, his lips moving, the words falling in gusty 
sentences, uneven, broken: “My head’s turnin’ . . . my 

head’s gone . . . dull an’ stoopid, like my life ... a 
job like that! My Susie’s banns up — an’ wiv Elliott! Lord! 
go easy on the lass.” 

The vicar approached. He seemed at that moment to 
arrive, as it were, in the same plane. He placed one hand on 
the old man’s shoulder, touching him gently. “Steady, my 
friend,” he whispered. “God will comfort you if you ask 
him. ” 

Sutcliffe faced about with sudden scorn. “Aye,” he said, 
“so I’ve heerd. So I’ve heerd. ” 

Mr. Oakley refused to take offence. “ What is it ? ” he ques- 
tioned. 

“ It’s this, ” said the old man. “ Elliott’s down the cellar. ” 

“You mean he is drowned?” the clergyman asked, uncertain 
of the metaphor, and very pale. 

“Aye, sir — drowned, drowned. P’raps cut in half. God 
knows — a job like that. Gone where many a good man’s 
gone, an’ Susie’ll have to pay. ” 


SUTCLIFFE SEEKS A REPLY 


157 


“Then surely you will let me do what I can to clear her name 
— surely in face of this ’’ 

“Clear her name?^’ 

“Unless that is done her life at the schools must end. Don’t 
you see it, Sutcliffe ? Isn’t it plain ? ” 

“Do you think there’s anythin’ to clear — does it strike you 
so ? You know her. ” 

“ As far as I am concerned — no. But I have managers to con- 
sider and the welfare of the schools. I ” 

“An’ my Susie is like to harm it?” 

The vicar waved his hand. “The world,” he announced, 
“is very censorious; we cannot afford to offend it. Certain 
matters require ” 

“Then damn the world, ” Sutcliffe broke out. 

“If you persist in talking in that fashion, I must go,” said 
the clergyman. 

“How else am I to talk? You tell me Susie must clear her 
character — clear it when it’s snowl You tell me Susie’s banns 
are up. I tell you Elliott’s charged wiv killin’ Dunscombe, 
that he’s run — an’ is down the cellar. You tell me Gawd will 
comfort me — an’ you throw Susie out as though she’s — as 
though,” he broke off, fumbling for words, “as though you are 
Gawd Almighty, an’ can judge ” 

“That is blasphemy, Sutcliffe,” said the vicar sternly. “I 
will not hear it. ” 

“Beggin’ to differ, sir,” the old man interrupted, “I’m not 
wiv you, on a job like that. How it will be looked upon when 
they come to the open book, I can’t say. But I don’t think it 
will be chalked up against me, as the sayin’ is. ” 

Mr. Oakley moved toward the door, his face very white and 
pained. “I am sorry, ” he said, “I hoped to be able to aid you 
and to aid the girl; but 


iS8 


THE ISSUE 


‘‘Just so — but?^’ said the old man. 

“I can do no more.** 

“More can*t I.** 

They made no attempt to stay his exit and he passed 
from the house wearing still the pained expression which had 
dawned at Sutcli£Ee*s outbreak. 

Mrs. Surridge viewed his exit with distinct pleasure. 
“Thank goodness for that,** she remarked after closing the 
door. “ Now we can mend the china with our own cement. ** 

Sutcliffe made no response. He stood looking out through 
the window at the sodden landscape. From the fields where 
Tom Surridge worked, came the hum of a threshing machine 
and the steady drone of an engine. Plover whirled and 
screamed in a newly ploughed field, searching the ruts for food 
until the crack of a distant rifle scared them and they hurried 
in a covey up wind. 

Mrs. Surridge advanced and laid her hand on his arm. 

“What about this Elliott, George,** she questioned, “is it 
true?** 

“Aye, sister — it’s true enough. ** 

“Then she’ll have to be told.** 

“ Leave it to me, ** he returned. “Maybe she’ll take it better 
from the old man — a job like that. ** 


CHAPTER VI 


The Difficulty of Belief 

B ut Sutcliffe did not speak. The days passed on and he 
saw Susie so obviously waiting for news that he could 
not bring himself to drive hope from her. There was no 
knowing, he decided, in a case of this kind. The lad may 
be down the cellar, but we have no proof — only guesswork and 
the talk of folk down river way. Sutcliffe appraised this at its 
full value — and found it unwise to express an opinion. 

In his heart he prayed that it might be so. The Coroner’s 
verdict stood as a bar against marriage. He argued that Susie 
might get over death by drowning, but death by the rope, 
which seemed possible, was death and damnation rolled in 
one. No girl could hope to make headway against it. 

So Sutcliffe sailed without having spoken, and Susie sat 
down to watch and wait in the chilling silence which had come 
upon her since Jack had disappeared. 

She had visited Riverton twice and on each occasion had 
returned with a passivity of manner which completely non- 
plussed Mrs. Surridge; a passivity which curiously wore off 
as the days went by. To-day it had been arranged that she was 
to go once more to Riverton, and Mrs. Surridge saw that she 
smiled at breakfast. She noted, too, the sunniness of eyes 
which once had been always sunny. 

Life at eighteen cannot forever be sombre, nor can it long 
remain tearful. Youth is strong. One is not overwhelmed 
at the first blow, nor perhaps, by the second. Hope climbs 

159 


i6o 


THE ISSUE 


amidst the black clouds which surround us. The silver lining 
of which we are always prattling lies somewhere behind. 
Indubitably this must be so. Something will happen. Nothing 
can be blacker than the present — besides, when you think of 
it, are we not all children of circumstance who manage more 
or less adroitly to adapt ourselves to the conditions in which 
we move ? If this were not so then to-morrow half the world 
would be on its deathbed, unable to face the peril with which 
it is surrounded. 

The day was brilliant. September had gone out with the 
roar of a lion and sunny October had stepped down to beguile 
the birds into the belief that spring was again at hand. The 
air rang with countless songsters. The rooks, awakened from 
their lethargy, winged heavily to and fro the elms carrying 
twigs and pieces of down. But the trees belied what the birds 
proclaimed so noisily; for the long, hot summer had left the 
leaves no nourishment. The autumn colouring did not 
appear. The leaves fell, sere and withered, like old men at 
the end of a difficult battle with life. 

And so it came about, that when Tom Surridge made his 
entry with the trap, Susie looked so bright that even Mrs. Sur- 
ridge was deceived. She decided that things were moving in 
the right direction. Apparently they were^for the two started 
in great spirits and the few short miles seemed as twenty to the 
girl’s impetuosity. 

She told herself that to-day there would be letters. To-day 
it was impossible that she could be disappointed. To-day — 

well, if She brushed the notion aside and, as they clattered 

down High Street, persuaded her uncle to allow her to walk. 
She desired to be alone at the post office — alone with her letters. 

Susie moved briskly towards her goal, hope prancing beside 
her. She came to the steps, entered the swinging doors and 


THE DIFFICULTY OF BELIEF 


i6i 


stood once more at the long counter watching. The demeanour 
of the clerks was nonchalant with those other applicants. She 
wondered whether they guessed the importance of letters, 
whether they would recognise the importance at all events of 
hers. But they did not guess. They saw a bright and flushed 
face, dancing eyes, and beautiful hair — a pretty girl in point of 
fact, asking for letters. Everyone desires letters. All human- 
ity is agreed on this question in the abstract gaze of a post office 
official. They require, simply letters. The man stared at 
her through the grille. 

‘‘What name?»» 

“ Sutcliffe — Susie Sutcliffe. ’’ 

The clerk turned out a bundle and examined them swiftly; 
“Sutcliffe? No, nothing for you.” 

Then hope died. 

The girl swayed at the counter and became white to the tips 
of her ears. She had relied on receiving news. Jack must 
have written. What could be the reason of this silence? 
What must she do? The look of concern on the clerk’s face 
gave her strength. She looked up to whisper: “Are you 
sure?” 

“I will look again.” 

He did so. Susie watching with terrible earnestness until 
he had finished, saw him again glance up and his lips form the 
words: “No, there are none at present. ” 

Still she watched him. Her brain was dizzy. The office 
furniture seemed to be moving before her eyes. Someone on 
the left was laughing — over in the corner a man was coming 
out of the telephone box. He was shutting the door with an 
air of absurd importance. It came into Susie’s mind that 
she was on the verge of laughter, then she caught the clerk’s 
gaze and it steadied her. It seemed that she must say some- 


i 62 


THE ISSUE 


thing, that the situation demanded it. And again came a 
whispered question: 

‘‘This is the General, isn’t it?” 

“Yes.” 

“How long do you keep letters that are addressed ‘to be 
called for?’ ” 

“ A month, perhaps more. It depends. ” 

“And then?” 

“We send them to the dead letter office to be returned.” 

' The girl was so white, so still, and yet so beautiful, that the 
man went out of his way to give further information. He 
turned up a register and examined it, asking further particulars 
as he searched: 

“When did you expect your letter ? Any time thisjor last week 
— hum. No; I’m sorry to disappoint you. We have returned 
no letter in the interval you name. ” 

Thus it was over. The hope-conjured silver lining sank 
through space. Nothing remained but clouds — clouds brim 
full of angry mutterings; charged with despair and a curious 
medley of belief, disbelief, anger, trust, love, wonder. 

Where should she go ? It mattered little where she went — 
Jack had forgotten to write. What should she do? It was 
immaterial what she did — Jack had not kept his promise; he 
had forgotten her position, forgotten the stigma of disgrace 
that had fallen upon her — forgotten . . . forgotten . . . 

and she was 

Susie crept wistfully into the sunshine. The air revived 
her. She laughed a little; breathed more freely; but how 
changed, how cold the world appeared! The wind was chill, 
the streets bleak; the passers on the pavement unduly boister- 
ous. She shivered, than drawing her cloak about her, went 
back to meet her uncle. 


THE DIFFICULTY OF BELIEF 


163 


She was standing at the appointed place, gazing absently 
at the shops, when a man approached. She knew the step 
and tried ineffectually to draw apart; but something chained 
her to the spot; a lethargy, a reluctance, a passive immobility 
she could not overcome. She was powerless to make the neces- 
sary effort, and, on turning, saw Saunderson watching intently 
all her movements. 

She met his glance with the tired air of one who has not 
strength for dispute. She wished he would go away, and leave 
her in peace. She recoiled from the thought of speech with 
any one at this moment; yet, despite her reluctance, felt 
irresistibly drawn towards him. He reached out and took her 
hand. 

“ Susie, he whispered, ^T^m glad to see you again. What 
are you doin’ in Riverton ? ” 

She replied with strange promptitude: “Waiting for Uncle 
— he is to drive me back,” and as she spoke she wondered 
whether Jack could by any chance hear her voice. 

Saunderson’s eyes were fixed upon her, reading her face, 
searching for the signals he hoped to find; but he said: 

“You look ill: aren’t you well. Lass?” 

“Yes — I am quite well. ” 

“Take care of yourself, Susie. You are not strong — may I 
stay till Uncle comes?” 

She looked up with a little shiver of dread. “If you wish 
to,” she replied. 

“If I wish to! Susie, you know I wish to. You know I 
would never leave you — if you gave me the right to stay by. ” 
Then after a pause, and as the girl made no response. “When 
are you cornin’ back to Abbeyville. The place is fair stale 
wivout you.” 

The man spoke with an intensity that was strange consider- 


THE ISSUE 


164 

ing their relations. It was a risky question; but Susie did not 
notice it. She was concerned with the indefiniteness of her 
knowledge about Jack — Jack, who had promised to write, who 
had promised to call her to him and rivet that marriage which 
had been so strangely interrupted — Jack, who had forgotten 
. . . forgotten. 

She had fallen again into the apathy which had marked her 
attitude on those days following her lover’s departure, before 
her father had arrived. 

“I shall never return to Abbeyville,” she answered at length, 
speaking like a child who has learned a lesson but does not 
understand its application. 

“There are worse places than Abbeyville to live in, Susie.” 

“Perhaps.” 

“Then why not come back. I might be able to help you if 
you gave me the chance — the right. Why don’t you come 
back?” 

Susie stood fidgetting with her cloak. The weight oppressed 
her; she buttoned and unbuttoned the fastenings; then she 
looked up: “Oh, because I’m a girl, I suppose. Only men can 
do as they will. ” 

Saunderson breathed hard. He touched the restless hand 
and she became still. 

“Give me the chance,” he whispered, “give me the chance 
to guard you; then you may go, an’ do what you will. ” 

“Do you mean that?” 

“ You know I do. Susie, you know I mean it. ” 

She did not see his face; she was staring down the street, 
marking the throng and bustle of the busy world; noting the 
haste, the rush, and purpose on the people’s faces, and wonder- 
ing whether they knew that Jack had forgotten to write; 
whether they would care if they did know; whether it would 


THE DIFFICULTY OF BELIEF 165 

make them sympathetic or disdainful. Then she became aware 
that Saunderson was still watching, and she spoke: 

‘‘Nonsense,’’ she said, “you only think you mean it.” 

“Susie, before God I ” 

“That is the way with men, before marriage,” she inter- 
rupted, with a touch of scorn. 

“Susie — hear me ” 

“But afterwards,” she resumed with steady apathy, “after- 
wards, they forget. They are all alike in that. They for- 
get.” 

Saunderson tried to take her hand, but the noise of approach- 
ing wheels had attracted her attention. She saw her uncle 
driving up the street, and in a moment had turned to meet 
him. 

“Law! Susie!” cried the little man, as he jumped to the 
pavement, “how white you are to be sure. You’ve done too 
much walking. I shouldn’t a let you. ” 

She looked up cheerily: “Thanks, I am all right. I can rest 
on the way back. Besides, what does it matter ? ” 

Surridge watched her in mute astonishment. 

“What the old woman, your auntie, my dear, will say if she 
sees you like that. Law only knows, ” said Tom with conviction. 
“I shouldn’t have allowed it. Why!” he continued, as he 
reached forward to gather up the reins, “if that ain’t Jim 
Saunderson. ” 

“Drive on,” Susie cried sharply, “I am tired.” 

Surridge stared, then waving his hand he turned the horse 
towards home. 

“Were you speakin’ to him, Susie?” 

“He came up. I — I couldn’t get away,” she stammered. 

Tom noted the tell-tale face with a quiet chuckle. 

“Law!” he said, “why should you? There’s no harm in a 


i66 


THE ISSUE 


gell speakin’ to a man. ’Sides, he’s a fine-built chap, so Auntie 
says, an’ has been won’erful good to father. ” 

“What do you mean?” 

The question rang so suddenly that Tom gave the mare an 
unnecessary flick which sent her spinning resentfully onward, 
faster than was wise in the streets. 

“What do I mean?” he cried between vigorous “Whoahs.” 
and “Steady there,” and a judicious tightening of the reins. 
“Why, bless the gell, what do it sound like?” 

“I always thought,” Susie returned, “that father disliked 
Saunderson. ” 

“Not more than I do, Susie. Woah then! Gently does it, 
or we shall have you all of a lather — Susie,” Tom went on, a 
curious dread depicted on his face, as it suddenly dawned upon 
him that he was breaking one of his wife’s most particular 
injunctions, “I’m all adrift. P’raps I’m wrong also — it was 
someone at Abbeyville, an’ his name began with a S. We’ll say 
no more about it. ” 

Susie made no further remark. She understood the niceties 
of the position, for Tom Surridge was a small, meek man, and 
his wife, as all Swinfleet knew, was much larger. It was easy 
to see that he had blundered, though why she was being kept 
in ignorance, was beyond her comprehension at this moment. 
She was concerned much more with the ineffaceable fact that 
Jack had forgotten to write, that Jack, with her kisses on his 
face, the remembrance of her passionate appeal to be taken 
with him ringing in his ears, that Jack had forgotten. Or, 
had he forgotten? Had something happened? Was there 
any truth in the report that he was in love with that girl ? She 
pushed the suggestion from her. It was impossible. He 
might have forgotten to write, but the other was absurd. She 
decided that it would be better to wait. It came into her 


THE DIFFICULTY OF BELIEF 167 

mind, too, that she might question her father on his return 
about Saunderson — and Jack. 

Late that evening, -while they were all sitting around the fire 
after supper, Tom left his place and went out to see to the pigs 
and poultry before shutting the house for the night. When 
they were alone, Mrs. Surridge turned to the girl and said: 

“So you saw Jim Saunderson in town to-day?’* 

Susie replied in the affirmative, but evinced no desire to con- 
tinue the conversation. 

“A fine built chap, that,” Mrs. Surridge expatiated, “a per- 
feck galliator, Susie. I wouldn’t be surprised if he finds it 
lonesome at Abbeyville now somebody’s away ? ” 

“Men,” the girl averred with a scarcely veiled sneer, “have 
the knack of adapting themselves to circumstances. New 
faces are always an attraction.” 

Mrs. Surridge came over and put her arms about the girl’s 
neck. “Then don’t you think we might take a leaf out of their 
book ? ” she questioned. 

Susie sat in silence, her lips closed, her eyes concentrated on 
the glowing fire. But she saw nothing more pertinent than 
the figure of a man moving down the river in a boat; passing 
the piers, passing the shipping, and rowing, always rowing 
out into the distant fog. Some sparks shot out across the hearth 
the coal sank in the grate; then Mrs. Surridge’s voice fell upon 
her ears again. “That’s letters for someone,” she was saying. 
“Leastways, it used to be letters in my time, I remember.” 

Susie looked up with a sudden question. “ Don’t you think 
it means that the night is getting frosty?” 

“La! what a material thing it is,” Mrs. Surridge droned, 
“ with no more seltiment about it than a whipped babby. Why, 
Susie, when I was your age, sparks fleckin’ out of the fire set 


i68 


THE ISSUE 


me thinkin’ an^ dreamin^ by the hour. If it didn’t mean letters 
from one, it meant letters from another. Off with the old love, 
on with the new, Susie. That was my motta, an’ I kept the 
lads dancin’, I warrant. Why, if you can’t make ’em dance 
before you’re wed, you may be sure you’ll stand precious little 
chance after.” 

Susie remained quite still. In her mind there moved a 
curious medley of boats and ships and dancing mannikins. 
Something appealed to her risible faculties and she smiled; 
then again instantly fell into the old calm attitude of waiting. 
Mrs. Surridge sat back in her chair watching the pale, set face. 
She knew from Susie’s remarks some time since, that she ex- 
pected to hear from Jack, and knew from her husband of the 
changed tone when he again picked her up in Riverton. She 
drew her own conclusions, but like many a kindly chatterer, 
desired to know definitely whether there had been any news. 
For, as Sutcliffe said, “one never can swear a man’s down the 
cellar until the body’s found.” That was true. It was an 
axiom which even Mrs. Surridge could understand. So far 
only a boat, a coat, and Susie’s note had been discovered. If 
a letter had come it would be prima facie evidence that Jack 
had not been drowned. She leaned forward now and whis- 
pered the question direct: 

“Did you get any news from — you know who, to-day, 
Susie?” 

The girl’s lips quivered. She grew quickly very white. “No, 
Auntie.” 

“ Did you expect one, deary ? Was it very impertant ? ” 

Susie rose, her face flushing, her breast heaving, her eyes 
staring: “Don’t! don’t!” she begged. “He was to have been 
my husband — and now ” 

Mrs. Surridge stood beside her, taking the poor scared eyes 


THE DIFFICULTY OF BELIEF 


169 


to her breast; soothing her as she would a child, and mumbling 
all the while a paltry flow of quaint advice: 

“La, Susie! don’t take on; don’t fret — there’s a deary. It’ll 
spoil your bright eyes and bring down the corners of your mouth 
— give you more lines than bringin’ up a fam’ly. Sho! Bless 
us an’ keep us — there’s just as good fish in the sea as ever was 
catched.” 


CHAPTER VII 


A Curtain Lecture 

I T’S my belief,” said Mrs. Surridge to the room generally, 
but to her husband in particular, “that the pretty 
lamb is frettin’ her soul to fritters.” 

There was no response; the room was in darkness and Tom 
sleeping noisily, with his face to the wall. His evident im- 
munity from earthly worries, struck his wife in the light of 
sacrilege. She could not sleep for anxiety about Susie; why, 
therefore, should he? She twisted uneasily from side to side, 
earnestly seeking oblivion and wrecking the symmetry of the 
bed. At last, turning on her back she expostulated with her 
silent lord. 

“Tom!” she cried. 

Tom only snored the louder. 

“ Tom! . . . Sakesl what a bugil you have to be sure.” 

“Dang they pigs!” said Tom from the pillows. 

“’Tain’t the pigs, Tom — it’s me.” 

This should have been suflScient even in these days of strong 
womanhood and jeering comments on the powers of a sex 
once called chivalrous. Tom should have risen to the occasion. 
But he did not rise. He grunted inaudibly instead; for he was 
a small man and very weary. 

“I never see anyone sleep like you, Surridge,” said his wife 
again. “If you were a toper there would be some excuse for 
it, but you couldn’t sleep heavier.” 

“The pigs is all comferable, Mary. I see to ’em afore I 
locked up — likewise the fowils.” 

170 


A CURTAIN LECTURE 


171 

“I said to-night,’’ returned his wife, ^^that unless a lass made 
her man jump afore she’s wed, she might holla for him to 
jump afterwards, with no more effect than the bustin’ of a 
blood wessel.” 

Surridge made no reply. It was evident from the sounds 
that he had again fallen asleep. The moonlight peeped in 
through the lattice, throwing elongated diamonds across the 
white bed covering. Mrs. Surridge sat up and surveyed her 
husband. 

“It’s my belief,” she asserted, “that you have a diseage.” 
Tom turned on his side and groaned a reply: “Sometimes I 
think it’s a pity I ain’t stone deaf,” he retorted. 

“You are worse than that.” 

Surridge lifted himself on his elbow, now fully awakened. 

“What’s wrong. Missis? Ain’t you near done talkin’?” he 
cried. 

“It’s my belief,” said Mrs. Surridge, realising that at last 
she had succeeded in overcoming his lethargy, “it’s my belief 
that the pretty lamb is fritterin’ her soul to fretters.” 

“What pretty lamb?” he questioned. “We haven’t got 
any lamb as I know of.” 

“It’s a diseage you’ve got, Tom — there’s no two ways about 
that, an’ its name is deaf an ’ stoopid.” 

“Why can’t you talk sense if you must talk?” he cried with 
a groan. 

“You used to think I talked sense,” Mrs. Surridge replied, 
shaking the bed in her agitation. “You used to say I talked 
like honey droppin’ from the comb.” 

Tom became mindful of an increasing desire for sleep; he 
also recognised that until he had got to the bottom of this 
trouble, he would have no chance; he replied, therefore, with 


an evasion: 


172 


THE ISSUE 


‘*So you did, Mary — an’ I can’t say I’ve ever had cause to 
alter them words.” 

That’s the sweetest thing you’ve said for months,” cried 
Mrs. Surridge as she administered a caress. “It’s about 
Susie.” 

Tom withdrew to the farthest limit of the bed. “Oh, about 
Susie,” he said, “ what about her?” 

“She’s pining for letters from that Jack Elliott,” 

“Ahl” 

“An’ from all we can find out, Elliott’s dead.” 

Tom sighed, but remained otherwise silent. His wife 
resumed: 

“She musn’t be let pine, Tom. She’s too good to be 
throwed away single all her life. It would be shockin’.” 

“So it would,” he assented with sympathy. 

“Jim Saunderson is a fine figure of a man, Tom — an’ most 
attentive, I’m sure.” 

“Too podgy about the waist,” said Tom decisively, “an’ I 
don’t like the wein that shows in his forehead, ner his eyes, 
ner ” 

“You never did like a big man so far as I can remember,” 
Mrs. Surridge threw out. 

Tom was silent. He was a small man, a perfect whipper- 
snapper, to speak correctly, and Mrs. Surridge had remarked 
upon it before. So he lay silent, waiting for the end of things. 

“I call Jim Saunderson a fine figure of a man. He’d do 
any woman credit, he would.” 

“Susie may have so’thin’ to say about that, Mary.” 

“You leave it to me.” 

“An’ suppose Jack Elliott ain’t dead — suppose ” 

“Don’t be a hass, Tom. Susie mustn’t wait on Elliott — 
for reasons. You take the tip from me — if I want you to back 


A CURTAIN LECTURE 


173 


me up I’ll look at you, otherwise, let it be to me. Why, Saun- 
derson is the very man to make her a good husband. 

“’Sides,” she continued, “Susie couldn’t marry Jack Elliott 
now, not even if he were back again — not respectable, she 
couldn’t. Jack’s livin’ under a shadda — murder may not have 
been done by him, but,” Mrs. Surridge pursed her lips, speak- 
ing with decision, “it’s what is fastened on him, an’ no gell can 
wed a man with a shadda an’ be happy.” 

Tom breathed heavily. He never felt more inclined to 
expostulate in his life, but he was sleepy, and desired above all 
things to be at liberty to turn his face to the wall. He consented 
without words. 

“You know as well as me, Tom,” his wife continued cheerily, 
“that I don’t hold with choppin’ an’ changin’ your lovers. But 
this is not what you might call an ordinally case — in fact it’s 
extre-ordinally. There’s been murder done, an’ there’s no 
sayin’ who’s done it — but, it’s cloaked on Elliott. An’ even if 
Elliott comes back, which I consider impossible, he mustn’t wed 
Susie. In fack he mustn’t be let have the chance; Susie must 
be tied up to once.” 

Tom grunted sleepily, but it was sufficient acknowledgment 
to induce Mrs. Surridge to continue her remarks. Indeed, 
had he consented to grunt at appropriate intervals, she would 
have talked indefinitely, for, like Micky Doolan, she loved 
nothing better than the sound of her own arguments. 

“An’ seein’ Susie must wed some other body,” she asserted 
to the room in general, “ Saunderson would be the very man for 
my money. He’s just the right height, an’ build, an’ has 
settled down with a bit of savings put by. He’s a man — only, 
it must be done judicious; no forcin’ the gell, Tom — no — Tom! 

“Blest if he ain’t asleep again. Sakes! ” she cried after survey- 
ing him on raised elbow; “the way some men do sleep is so’thin’ 
crewl. It’s a diseage — that’s what I call it. ” 


CHAPTER VIII 


Zulu Supplies a Parallel 

S USIE’S reading of the prophecy of the sparks was nearer 
the truth than she imagined when suggesting it. Day 
after day passed; the weather became steadily colder; 
winter was at hand, winter and silence — the silence of death. 

Jack had not written. At first it seemed possible that his 
letters had been lost; but with time there came questioning 
doubts. All the letters could not have been lost, for instance. 
The idea was manifestly absurd. And if he had not written — 
why ? Was it that he had forgotten ? The notion passed her 
mind in many forms. Only those who have waited quite under- 
stand the sting of it. This craving for news was slowly eating 
into the girl’s life. Cynicism found voice — no man, she told 
herself, could forget so soon. 

Yet, despite her torture, it was only at intervals that she 
relapsed into the apathetic condition which had so alarmed 
her friends. Indeed no one could long remain dull in a house 
containing such a bundle of good nature as Mrs. Surridge. 

If she thought the girl looked more than usually wan, she 
took her by the sleeve and laughed and joked until Tom was 
‘Hair ’mazed with the tack of the old woman,” as he expressed 
it. He was careful naturally to keep this view of the case for 
communication to the pigs and fowls which he visited at odd 
intervals during his meal hours. At this time it was not at all 
unusual to hear ringing peals of laughter issuing from the 
kitchen, and to see the door slowly open in order that Tom 

174 


ZULU SUPPLIES A PARALLEL 


175 


might emerge to give his opinion to the pigs. This done he 
would return, winking solemnly, and sit down to finish his 
dinner or his pipe, and ruminate on the inexplicable aspect 
of affairs, until it was time to trudge back to his work. 

Before many days had elapsed Susie discovered that her 
uncle drove frequently into Riverton, and found him willing to 
call at the post office. She discovered also the drift of her aunt’s 
remarks on the manly beauty of Jim Saunderson, and so, hav- 
ing established a primitive code, would wait an opportunity of 
putting her questions without that lady’s knowledge. 

“Did you call. Uncle?” 

“Aye, Susie.” 

“ Anything for me ? ” 

“Nothin’, Susie.” 

Sometimes the dearth of news was passed simply from one to 
the other in silence. The girl, watching her chances, would look 
across the table with her pretty forehead puckered over raised 
brows; and Tom would gaze solemnly into his plate or cup, 
and frown and shake his head as though he saw the devil lurk- 
ing there. After this he usually rose and went out to talk with 
the piglings. It was his safety valve. Some men work off 
their steam by swearing, but Surridge leaned over the sty doors 
in silent meditation on the prolific generosity of mother pigs. To 
them he could give his opinions free of restraint. To give them 
to Mrs. Surridge was to produce a curtain lecture of the Caudle 
brand. Tom preferred a lecture from the pigs. 

Thus the time passed until, one day, nearly two months 
after Jack’s departure, Surridge returned from Riverton with 
a companion seated beside him in the trap. 

Susie had been a long while standing near the gate in antici- 
pation of her uncle’s coming, wondering with great round eyes 
what the day held in store for her, wondering whether by chance 


176 


THE ISSUE 


a letter was on its way to greet her — whether Jack had written, 
whether he would write, whether he had ever intended to write. 
Then, on looking up, she saw the trap and the second figure. 
At once she imagined it to be her father, returned earlier by a 
few days than had been expected. But closer inspection re- 
vealed no clean-shaven face nor stooping back. It revealed 
a taller, bigger man, a man with a beard — Jim Saunderson. 

For a moment the girl meditated feigning sickness, but 
relented on recognising the absurdity of such a course. She 
stood her ground therefore, and met her uncle’s evident disap- 
proval with all the sang-froid she could muster. Then, leading 
the way within, stood a minute telegraphing, and fled to her 
room. 

There were no letters. Again were there no letters. 

Susie threw herself across the bed foot. She lay prone upon 
her back, staring at the ceiling, marking the lines in the old 
oak beam; counting the cracks, the holes, the wonderful maze 
of minute holes — all no larger than pin-pricks in the wood. 

There were no letters. She questioned why she was left in 
this horrible suspense ? Why had he not written ? Would he 
ever write? Would he? Would he? Surely he could do 
so if he chose. She could have found a way. Anyone 
who so desired it could find a way. Why then had Jack not 
found it? 

A long while she lay thus, her eyes dry, her face flushed, 
her brain aching with the tension. She desired above all things 
an answer to this question, — “Why?” But it eluded her. In 
vapouring shapes, high among the shadows behind the old 
beams, it stole, about, mocking, laughing, refusing capture. 
Two months had passed ! She whispered it with a tense expres- 
sion . . . two months, and he had promised to call her to 

him at once. Yet no word had come. A silence, deep as the 


ZULU SUPPLIES A PARALLEL 


177 


silence of the fields, had fallen upon his movements. It had 
crept into her life. A silence filled with dread, straining her 
nerves, banishing sleep — making her doubt the actuality of 
accomplished facts. Yet did she pause to consider, they stood 
out, a hideous array, droning a song whose burden was desertion. 
How trite a tale for her friends to read; how stale, how paltry, 
how humiliating! She, who had held so high a head, who had 
spoken always of love as the sole necessity in marriage — and 
now they could sneer, all of them, pointing out her indiscre- 
tions with the finger of unctuous scorn. 

She turned from the difiicult problem of finding an answer, 
and hiding her face found herself crying without tears: “Oh, 

it is cruel — cruel! I cannot bear it. I cannot ” She 

started at the knowledge the words conveyed and again faced 
the ceiling. 

The maze met her. Cracks leading to nothing. Holes that 
were uncountable. Marks that led nowhither — and amidst it 
all a wonderful legend, a legend which bid her hope, which bid 
her wait. Which whispered of something more — something 
she could not trace — high up there, amidst the plaster or the 
beams or the crevices that would not stay filled. 

Again a voice, not her own, but her aunt’s, calling from the 
stair-foot, bade her come down to tea. 

The notion appalled her. The commonplace necessity of the 
thing echoed like a laugh in her brain. But she rose at once, 
wondering at the simplicity which had suggested abstinence. 
She crossed the room and came to the door, calling as she 
moved: “Yes, yes, coming. Auntie,” then, turning, stood 
before the glass. 

What flushed cheeks, what frightened eyes, what a tumbled 

head! Could it be herself, or had she — had she She 

used to be self-possessed, self-reliant. People had said so. 


178 


THE ISSUE 


Now her self-control had vanished and self-reliance was going 
also. 

Like steam thrown into a fog, it melted and disappeared. 
Against her will the thought crept like a shadow — Jack had 
forgotten. 

In the kitchen they were waiting for her. She bustled about 
composing her features and arrived with cold eyes, white cheeks 
and statuesque pose; silent, watching, searching their faces. 
Tea was spread and Saunderson stood near the fire talking; but 
as she entered he crossed over and took her hand. Tom Surridge 
noting her scared expression hastened into the yard on a 
fancied errand to the pigs. 

‘‘La!” cried Mrs. Surridge as she became aware of her hus- 
band’s departure; “I never see such a man. If they were his 
own children, he couldn’t do more for ’em. ” 

Susie considered the niattter from an immense distance. She 
gathered the meaning of his exit and set herself to act as though 
no question throbbed in her brain; as though no thought had 
stolen upon her and refused to be dismissed. She laughed 
softly — the ghost of laughter merely, and was astonished to 
notice how they stared. Then her uncle returned,. He found 
that they had not waited. His wife presided at the table whence 
she dispensed tea and smiles; and, most curious phase of all, 
Susie seemed to be entering into the fun of the thing with as 
much zest as her aunt. 

Surridge took his place in silence. He understood women 
collectively as little as his wife understood him. He only saw 
that his guest was the recipient of all the favours of the party, 
and frowned and shook his head quite unguardedly. 

“ I didn’t bring no letters, ” he thought. “ I never signalled I 
did. What’s come to the gell, I can’t think, no more than Zulu 
can. ” 


ZULU SUPPLIES A PARALLEL 


179 


Zulu was the sow. 

“Seems to me I’d best let things went, ” he said aloud. 

“What things, Tom?” 

“Zulu’s number four have got her ear cut,” he replied, 
steadily retiurning his wife’s gaze. 

“Oh — how did that come?” 

“She were friendly with Jacob — from the lower sty — an 
Zulu’s put her nose in; wants her to take up with old Tammas. 
It ain’t fair on Jacob, so he’s split her ear.” 

“Tom!” cried his wife with mock severity; “you’re a dis- 
grace to any Christian woman, with your stories an’ your 
fencies — ’a-done 1 ” 

She laughed heartily as she spoke, utterly oblivious of the 
fable’s application; Then, noticing Susie’s flushed cheeks, 
shook her head and started a new subject as though to the 
manner born. So they continued, laughing and chatting until, 
tea having come to an end, Mrs. Surridge rose and, signing to 
her husband, left the room. Saunderson at once crossed over 
and stood by the girl. 

“Have you thought any more about coming back to Abbey- 
ville?” he questioned. 

Susie looked up. Her face betrayed no astonishment, no 
anger; it might have been the veriest trifle that he had sug- 
gested in those ringing tones he knew so well how to use. She 
said: 

“No,” and then, “why should I?” 

“ Can’t you do anything for my sake; can’t you — can’t you ? ” 
he reiterated. 

Again the answer fell without a vestige of self-consciousness, 
utterly cold, unutterably pathetic: “No — why should I?” 

Saunderson caught her by the hand, staring into her beauti- 
ful eyes, his face flushed, his voice trembling with emotion. 


THE ISSUE 


I So 


“Because I love you, Susie. Because I love you and would 
die to see you happy.” 

She drew back with a sudden movement and cried with 
vehemence: 

“Love! Nonsense! There is no such thing; there never 
was — never will be. Yet, once, I believed in love; but that 
was long ago . . . long ago — do you understand? long — 

long ago.” 

She spoke with such passion, clasping and unclasping her 
hands, that Saunderson, watching and abashed, could only 
gaze in silence; hungrily, as one who would dare all for the 
sake of simple possession; who had it in mind to catch that 
frail, palpitating soul in his arms and hold her there till she 
promised to comply with his desire. But he retained his self- 
control by a strong effort and continued to urge his cause. 

“Susie,” he begged, “you don’t know how I want to help 
you; how I would do anything on earth to make you think 
better of me. I would go on my knees to you — if I thought it 
would do me any good; I would lie down an’ let you kick me 
with your little shoe — if I thought you would be any prouder of 
me — but it wouldn’t help me — it wouldn’t help me — Susie! 
what shall I do — what shall I say?” 

“Say? Nothing. Words mean so much — sometimes.” 

Saunderson drew back a pace; his eyes took a new tinge. 

“No,” he cried, “I won’t go on my knees to you — because — 
it would make you despise me — that’s why. A woman de- 
spises a man that treats her always with honey. Very well — 
I don’t go on my knees to you; but I stand here now an’ tell 
you that presently you’ll wed Jim Saunderson; that you’ll wed 
him whether you love him or not — because you won’t be able 
to help yourself.” 

He advanced a step nearer, extending his arms: “Come,” 


ZULU SUPPLIES A PARALLEL 


i8i 


he cried, “don’t try to fight me; don’t try to drive me away. 
It isn’t any use. I don’t ask for too much love — I don’t ask 
for too many kisses. I ask for you. Come, child — it will be 
easier than fighting me — easier — easier. Oh, God love you, 
come to me. There’s nothin’ I won’t do for you — nothin’ 
nothin’ ” 

His appeal left her entirely unmoved. She faced him; 
looked into his eyes, noted his gestures — but there the matter 
ended; oblivion stepped in, and that cold, methodical, precise 
speech which so annoyed him, came to her aid. 

‘T have no wish to be married,” she said at length. “I 
don’t think you can say that I encouraged you. I don’t ” 

“Encouraged me!” Saunderson laughed grimly. It seemed 
such an excellent joke — encouraged him — he was uncertain 
whether she deliberately designed to anger and insult him, or 
whether His voice leaped upon his thoughts. 

“Encourage me! Aye, if ‘go to hell’ is encouragement — 
then you have encouraged me — not else.” 

She took no notice; his violence escaped her; she said very 
quietly: “I am sorry.” • 

“So am I.” 

“And I hope you will forget all about — this — this conver- 
sation; and that I ” 

“No!” he cried vehemently. “I’ll not do that either. I’ll 
remember it all the days of my life — and so will you.” Then» 
in a softer voice, as though alarmed at his own passion: “Susie, 
is there nothin’ I can do to make you love me ? Is there nt)thin’ 
—nothin’? ” 

She looked up now with a little shiver. “ Only leave me alone,” 
she begged. “ Only that.” 

He swung round at once. “It’s a thing I can do,” he an- 
nounced over his shoulder. 


THE ISSUE 


1S2 

He passed Mrs. Surridge and her husband on the threshold, 
nodded grimly and left the house. The two came into the 
kitchen. 

“Well,” said Tom, with a gasp of dismay, “if that ain’t 
so’thin’, I don’t know what is. Never a word — same as if 
we might be flies in his tea — flick! an’ he’s gone.” 

He stood staring at Susie in unfeigned amazement. His 
wife caught the look, heard his remarks and turned upon him 
with a sharp question: 

“What’s wrong now?” 

Tom was about to reply, but he detected advice written in 
Mrs. Surridge’s manner, and fell into a new key: 

“Why, Zulu’s got holt of number four, an’ she’s givin’ her 
hop-scotch,” he replied, and vanished in the direction of the 
sties. 

That night Tom found himself, by chance, alone in the 
kitchen with Susie. His wife had gone out with a neighbour. 
Coming in, he had discovered the girl sitting in the arm chair 
staring into the fire, an open book lying unheeded on her lap. 
Tom approached at once: 

“You didn’t mistake me, Susie?” he asked. 

“How, Uncle?” 

“Why — in that signallin’ business — about the letters.” 

“No, why?” the question leaped eagerly as the girl sprang 
upright. “Why — did you bring any?” 

“No — don’t worry, Susie.” He spoke quickly, noting her 
tell-tale face. “No. There weren’t any. But I thought you 
mistook my meanin’, you looked so gay, so blithe, you know.” 

“ Gay — blithe ? ” 

Tom glanced about; the house was very silent. He de- 
termined to get at the bottom of this matter. He leaned for- 


ZULU SUPPLIES A PARALLEL 183 

ward speaking in low tones; “Do you care for yon chap, 
Susie?” 

“ Saunderson ? ” 

“Aye,” 

Susie lifted her hands as though she weighed the question. 
“ Care for him ? I am afraid of him — nothing else.” 

“That’s cur’us,” said Tom. “I thought you liked him 
amazin’.” 

The girl answered in a resigned and pathetic tone: “Is 
that why you told us the story about Zulu and Jacob? Yes — 
yes, I understood. Why is it all so dreadfully difficult ? Why 
am I left to struggle with him alone. I hate him. Uncle, 
where is Jack — where is Jack?” 

She propounded the sentence so suddenly; in such quick, 
nervous accents, that Tom was flustered. He forgot, alto- 
gether, his wife’s instructions. “I don’t know,” he said. 

“Tell me — tell me! Will he write? Will he write?” Her 
voice broke with the sound of weeping, and Tom hastened to 
stay it. 

“Of course he’ll write. A course he will. Maybe he’s 
doin’ it now. If ’t’were me, Susie, he would be. Law! how 
could he help it. Why — he couldn’t — now, could he ? ” 

Susie swayed to and fro, moaning dumbly, searching for a 
loophole. “He promised ... he promised. It’s two 
months . . . two whole months since then — and ” 

“Law! a course it is,” Tom repeated, and strayed across to 
put his hand on her shoulder. “You see,” he explained, “he’s 
gone to Franch. It’s a long way — so I’m told. It takes a 
while to get to Franch; weeks it takes — then ” 

She cried out suddenly with laughter and tears: “No, no! 
Oh! indeed, it would not take a day.” 

Tom withdrew his hand. He was more astray than ever. 


184 


THE ISSUE 


“I wouldn’t wonder,” he remarked in desperation, “if it weren’t 
Franch after all. Maybe it was China.” 

Susie fell back into the chair and relapsed into a fit of 
laughter and tears. The tears blinded her; the laughter 
choked her, or she would have seen Tom’s face of utter dis- 
may as he hastened to fetch restoratives. 

He knew of only one. He had seen his mother use it years 
ago, and searched for the materials. 

He came back after a lapse of minutes, armed with a large 
sponge filled with water. The screams filled the kitchen; 
Susie lay with her head bowed low on the arm of the chair. She 
could not have been better placed. Surridge looked upon this 
simple fact as the direct intervention of Providence, and cush- 
ioned the sponge carefully in the curve of her cheek and ear. 

The girl sprang erect, laughing now and struggling with a 
desperation that alarmed the little man. The laugh went 
through him; filled his ears. He shrank back appalled, and 
at the same moment the door opened to admit his wife. She 
stood a moment surveying the scene, and woman-like, grasped 
its meaning. 

“’Stericks,” she remarked. “An’ Tom playin’ the fool. 
’A-done! Susie! An’ Tom, you drop that sponge.” 

She took the girl in her arms as she spoke; glared at her 
husband, who instantly beat a retreat, and the trouble was 
ended. 

Thereafter, Tom made no further attempts at consolation. 
The ways of women were quite ridiculous. He was awake the 
best part of the night, listening to instructions from his wife. 

On the whole he considered it much easier to rule Zulu and 
her progeny. 


CHAPTER IX 


The Methods of the Scorcher 
GAIN the old brig Tantalus lay at her moorings off 



^ Riverton, waiting turn to discharge cargo into the 
Black Diamond hulk; and Sutcliffe was within ken of his 
crowding troubles. 

The “Scorcher,” a name which the executor of Dunscombe’s 
affairs had already earned, had been on the prowl all day; 
peering into lockers, store-rooms, galley, hold, and cabin — 
everywhere, indeed, where a man’s nose may sniff or his eyes 
obtain a vision. It was as natural for him to suspect a lie as 
it is for most Thames skippers to tell one. He came from an 
up-river wharf, where he had been manager, with the reputation 
of never having believed the truth when he heard it. A state- 
ment more damaging among the shrewd casuists he ruled than 
any plain expression of villainy. 

His creed was: All men are born liars, but a bargee is a more 
gratuitous species of liar than any others of the tribe.” In 
dealing with them, and the riverside fraternity, he made a 
mental reservation — “These men are liars,” and he treated 
them consistently. 

Already there were those who prophesied trouble with the 
hands as a result of the new management; but then, there are 
always croakers in a camp where one digger is placed in author- 
ity over brother diggers. As a digger has been found the 
hardest taskmaster for kindred diggers, so the small ship- 
owner, the small shopkeeper, have been found the most un- 


185 


i86 


THE ISSUE 


relenting, the most pettifogging of drivers in civilised gold- 
seeking. 

It was whispered that the ^‘Scorcher,’’ whose real name was 
Michael Jones, came from “ Taffy-land,” and the riverside 
wags had many stories of his early boyhood. These, in any 
other community, might have redounded to his credit — 
but not here, where it is considered derogatory for a master 
to have had his beginnings at the pitside, where, apparently, 
he had wandered barefoot, collecting heaps of pickings for 
barter. 

On this day Sutcliffe’s life was a burden for him. His voy- 
age had not been a success, and the “Scorcher” had not failed 
to comment on the fact. The old man had hoped to get home 
at once to assure himself that all was as well with the lil’ lass, 
as her letters had given him to understand. Also it is a skipper’s 
prerogative to land as soon as his ship is securely moored. 
Sutcliffe therefore felt distinctly aggrieved at his master’s lack 
of consideration. 

It was eight o’clock when at length he arrived at the pic- 
turesque cottage near the woods, and discovered Susie awaiting 
his arrival. A hand went out — the old signal — and in a mo- 
ment the girl was in his arms. 

“Eh!” the lil’ lass,” he cried. “It’s good to see you blithe 
again. Eh! it’s good — thank Gawd for it. Why, bless my 
soul,” he continued, holding back and viewing her with pride 
and delight gleaming in his eyes; if it were’n’ that you’re a 
bit thinner an’ whiter, I’d say you are the same as ever you 
were down at the old home.” 

Mrs. Surridge who had been a witness to the meeting, and 
now stood by beaming massively upon them, broke in at once: 
“Sakesl” she cried. “She’s as fit as fit: gettin’ as plump as 
a parterige in September — colour all right, eyes bright as you 


THE METHODS OF THE SCORCHER 187 


want; don’t you worry about that. I say there’ll be weddin’ 
bells ringin’ shortly — that’s the least I expect, brother.” 

Tom Surridge, who had been hovering behind his wife’s 
more substantial identity, slunk out through the kitchen at 
these words. He was a tender-hearted man, and knowing what 
he knew, viewed the dubious marriage proposals in the light 
of sacrilege — only he called it by a different name as he went 
out to take counsel with the pigs. 

Susie smiled and hastened to turn the conversation into a 
new channel. 

“How late you are,” she said. *We have been expecting 
you all day.” 

“Since dinner time we have,” Mrs. Surridge chimed, as 
they trooped in to prepare supper. 

A gray shadow stole over the old man’s face. The recol- 
lection of certain difficulties in which he had become involved, 
smote him, and he fell back on a recitation of the most prom- 
inent. He spoke slowly again; in the ringing tones of one 
who recognises that he is hemmed in, beaten on all issues, and 
must surrender. 

“I couldn’t get out before, lass. It’s almost a wonder I’m 
here now, as the sayin’ is. There’s the new Guv’nor aboard 
all day — pokin’ his nose into every corner of the ship: worse 
than Dunscombe, he is, in that way — an’ as for takin’ you at 
your word, why, he don’t — an’ there’s an end.” 

Sutcliffe sank into an armchair before the fire and spread his 
hand to the blaze; he watched them over his shoulder, laying 
the cloth. 

“We were onlucky on the trip home, you see. Had a 
accident. It’s many a day since I were ashore with the old 
brig; but I got caught, fair an’ square, as the sayin’ is, about 
half ebb.” 


i88 


THE ISSUE 


Susie stayed her help and stood watching her father as he 
remembered. He said, still in the slow, thrashed voice: 

“Last voyage when we’re at home, I says to the Guv’nor, 
‘Sir, our sails are gettin’ pretty percurious; we’ll be wantin’ 
a new fit out from keel to truck before long.’ 

“‘Sho!’ says he, ‘why — what’s wrong wiv ’em. They don’t 
look bad.’ 

“‘No, sir,’ I answer, ‘but it ain’t always the things as look 
best, that are best, on a job like that.’ 

“‘They’ll have to stand, Sutcliffe; there’s no two ways 
about that,’ says he. ‘Why, look at last voyage,’ he says, 
‘ten days from Hull to the Pool. Lawd! wheer do you 
think the money’s to come from while you an’ your crew 
are eatin’ your heads off at sea? Damn it, Sutcliffe, you 
must shake a bit more out of the Tantalus — or, she won’t be 
wo’th her keep.’ 

“ ‘Give me the kites, sir,’ says I, ‘an’ the brig will show some 
of ’em the road yet. But who can do anythin’ in the way of a 
passage, wiv the likes of that ?’ An’ I walked him acrost to the 
main hatch wheer Micky Doolan’s at work on the leech of 
our stay-fores’l; wheer it’s double, you understand, an’ I took 
it in hand an’ tore it across as easy as eatin’ peas wiv a spoon — 
him watchin’ me all the time. ‘If that ain’t proof, sir,’ says 
I; ‘Lumme! if I know what is.’ 

“‘Chucks!’ says he. ‘Dry rot — that’s what that is. Why 
in thunder do you leave your sails stowed wet ? Hold on! don’t 
tear any more — it’s got to stand.’ 

“‘Beggin’ to differ, sir,’ says I, ‘that’s not sun rot — it’s rot 
from age. Dunscombe bought these sails off a salvage case — 
when they ought to have been condemned.’ 

“An’ wiv that, Susie, the Scorcher turns on his heel an’ will 
hardly look at me the rest of the day. So we sailed an’ got 


THE METHODS OF THE SCORCHER 189 


caught in a breeze cornin’ down the Maplins; lost our rags;* 
drove ashore — an’ there you are, as the sayin’ is.” 

Susie stood white and trembling before her father; her hand 
moving irresolutely about his neck. He put out his arm and 
drew her to him with a touch of the old buoyant hope; the hope 
now so nearly dead. 

“Sho!” he whispered, “how nervous you’ve grown. Why — 
bless us, there’s nothin’ in that — there’s no harm done. Why, 
the Maplins are soft as a baby’s lips; wouldn’t hurt a soul, 
not in calm weather,” he reserved, “let alone a ship.” His 
voice fell again, he mumbled under his breath gazing intently 
at the fire: “Maybe the old brig’s a bit cleaner about the gar- 
bage streaks, an’ keel; maybe she’s a trifle hogged, f but she’s 
none the worse for that. They all get hogged wiv time — like 
old men crooked by heavy loads long borne — long borne — a 
job like that.” 

Susie stood fondling the gray ringlets, petting the creased 
brow, smoothing the collar of his coat; but she made no effort 
to speak. Her eyes had followed his ; she, too, stared into the fire. 

Mrs. Surridge came boisterously into the gap, flourishing 
her potato masher like a club. “Sakes alive!” she cried, 
“don’t you go playin’ any tricks, brother — ’taint’ safe, not at 
your age. An’ as for that Scorcher chap, I wish I had his 
dirty face under this masher of mine. If I wouldn’t [give him 
ecollomy, I don’t know, ” she concluded with a vigorous slam 
as she placed the saucepan lid on the stove. But Sutcliffe was 
not to be warned; he failed to notice the girl’s silence. He felt 
her touch; her face was withheld. 

“I don’t know,” he said; “maybe the Guv’nor is not so black 
as he’s painted. He’s got some heart — an’ that is more than you 
can say for Dunscombe. ” 


* Sails, f Hog-backed, i. e., no longer straight but raised in the middle. 


THE ISSUE 


190 

Mrs. Surridge produced a dish wherein to turn the potatoes: 
“Heart?’’ she cried indignantly, “the man that can act as 
you’ve said, hasn’t a heart — it’s a flip-jack, fried tough as 
leather. ” 

Sutcliffe smiled. “Sho!” he replied. “I’m rememberin’ 
Dunscombe. There’s no one that can be a patch on Duns- 
combe. He was not only mean — he was cruel, cowardly cruel 
into the bargain. ” 

“No, Susie,” he resumed as they drew up to the table in 
response to Mrs. Surridge’s invitation, and Tom came back 
from his visit to the pigs, “no — you may reckon on the old man 
bein’ kereful not to run unnecessary risks, for the sake of all. 
But sooner or later trouble is bound to come out of this business 
— an’ I would rather you were prepared — on a job like 
that. ” 

The girl found voice to question eagerly : ‘ ’* How, Father ? ” 
and Sutcliffe continued: 

“I’ll tell you, lass — but it has to do wiv natural causes; 
causes that are bound to come, because they have to do wiv old 
age alone. 

“I’ve been skipper of the Tantalus this fifteen year or more. 
Man an’ boy I’ve known her thirty. She can’t be for many 
years a top of that; it’s not in reason, because she’s worn. So, 
because she’s old and don’t pay, or get lost, as maybe she ought, 
it don’t pay to do much in the way of repairs. A bit longer — 
the Lawd alone knows when on a job like that an’ the old lady 
will have to be lost or sold foreign; an’ I will have coiled down the 
strings for the last time about her taffrail aft. 

“No,” he went on sadly, “it ain’t easy to look forward to 
a thing like that; but it will come ... an’ it will have to 
be faced. It’s cornin’. I know that from a word the Scorcher 
dropped to-day. I’m askin’ for a new mains’l an’ fore-stays’l. 


THE METHODS OF THE SCORCHER 


191 

in place of them we blowed away in the breeze. Says he, 
‘You’ll have to do wiv the old sails out of the Bluebell — we’ll 
patch ’em up for you, an’ next time you have the chance, Sut- 
cliffe, why ’ He stops an’ looks at me out of his small eyes. 

‘What?’ says I, ‘down the cellar wiv her?’ ‘No fool!’ he says. 
‘Make a clean sweep of it — then we can come on the club for a 
refit, an’ sell her afterward.’ ” 

Mrs. Surridge strove to turn the conversation; she laughed 
boisterously at nothing in particular, made an observation 
which verged on idiocy; but Sutcliffe could not see; he con- 
tinued in his grave, worn tones: 

“You see, it’s like this — when a ship has been runnin’ thirty 
years or more, an’ has paid as the old brig must a paid in times 
gone by, she don’t stand at anythin’ on her owner’s books. 
She has wiped out her cost a long while. But now steam’s come 
in she don’t pay, freights are cut, she’s slow an’ it don’t pay to 
reclass her. So they just keep her joggin’, or moor her in the 
thick of the traffic, or wait till the Gov’ment drops alongside an’ 
condemn her. Then they must make a move; so they sell her 
to the Dutchmen — hoist a dirty flag across her starn in place 
of a clean one — stick in a crew of Dutch chysers an’ run her 
in her old trade. There’s no alteration made, nothin’ done 
to her; but now she can run on as before and wait for the end — 
wiv a crew of Dutchmen instead of her own. Nothin’ else — 
nothin’ — a job like that. ” 

Susie steadied her eyes and looked across at her father: 
“Better to be sold than that she should be a death trap — to 
you. The risk is so dreadful — and yet I shall be sorry — yes, 
I shall be sorry. ” 

“Not more than I will, Susie. Eh! not more than I will. 
It’s a weary while since I had what you might call happiness 
on board of her; but it will be like cuttin’ the old man’s arm 


192 


THE ISSUE 


off, or his leg — when she goes. Aye, I’d as lief she went down 
the cellar, as the sayin’ is; it would be easier. ” 

Mrs. Surridge assumed a gaiety she did not feel and sprang 
into the conversation with an assertion of her belief. “She’s 
not goin’ down the cellar, brother. An’ as for callin’ yourself 
old — why, it’s suttinly nothin’ more or less than a libel. 
Shockin’! shockin’! an’ me sittin’ beside you only two year 
behind. Have another cut of the hand, George — or do you 
like the knuckil best ? ” 

“Take another glawss o’ ale, George,” said Tom, as he 
pushed the jug across the table. “You’re a bit down on your 
luck, mate — that’s what you are. ” 

“Six hours bumpin’ on the sands ain’t goin’ to make a man 
feel ezactly as bright as it’ll make the old brig’s copper,” 
Sutcliffe returned. “Eh! sister — I’m not what I was. Fifty- 
five years is what I am; forty-five of ’em spent trapsin’ up an’ 
down the old river for somebody else’s benefit. Forty-five years, 
Susie — ^gatherin’ what? How do I stand? A’most broke — 
a’most broke.” His eyes took a far away look as he spoke. 
The sad gray-blue eyes that saw no one present; marked 
nothing of the danger with which his words were charged; 
looked only into the past as he toyed with his glass. 

“Fifty years on the old river brings a man alongside the 
passon for the second time — on some other body’s shoulder. 
Fifty years of river life is three-score an’ ten ashore . . . 

an’ what has the old man gathered, as the sayin’ is, durin’ 
that spell ? 

“Nowt, Susie. Nowt beyond maybe a debt or so. Debts 
are heavy to wipe off when a man has got over his prime. I’m 
over my prime — long over; an’ I’ve been hit — still, there’s 
been other things more worth thinkin’ of, on a job like that. 
There was Lucy — Gawd rest her bright soul — an’ the lil’ lass. 


THE METHODS OF THE SCORCHER 


193 


Aye, the HP lass came to take the place of her that left me. 
But Susie an’ Gawd alone know the mis’ry of my life since she 
was took. Eh ! if we could only look ahead as we can look back. 
If when Gawd has some new move on the board for us, he’d 
give us a sight of what lies ahead — what a crowd of poor devils 
would never take that move, never — never. 

“Sho! what are we talkin’ of? Dreamin’, Susie, that’s 
what I call it — dreamin’ an’ playin’ the fool. ” 

Supper was over. They all rose, and Susie moved across to 
Sutcliffe’s side. She put her arms about his neck and kneeling 
beside him, kissed him on the forehead. 

“Don’t trouble dear,” she begged. “Don’t worry about 
the future. You couldn’t help things — going as they have. 
No one could. And as for the debts, ” — she rallied her forces, 
speaking brightly, “why we will work hard and pay them off. 
You and I. Oh! you little know what I can do, or how strong 
and clever I — ” 

She broke off abruptly, stammered, and fell into silence. For 
a moment it seemed as though the cord of her memory had 
snapped — then, laughing a little hysterically, she fled to her 


room. 


CHAPTER X 


In Limine 

N ight had fallen on the quiet village nestling so sleepily 
in the hollow of the Kentish hills, a soft, still night, 
with a young moon creeping through the skeleton trees across 
the way. 

The tired world was already adrowse. Scarcely a sound came 
from the tiny hamlet straggling up the road where the two 
men had gone soon after supper. Susie was in bed, but sleep 
would not come. 

Something not to be accounted for had happened to the 
beams and ceiling overhead, or was it the cracks or those minute 
pinholes or the stained blotches moving in that wilderness of 
white plaster? She could not understand it. It puzzled her 
extremely. She felt the necessity for a closer examination 
and crept from her bed to carry out the desire; then, straight- 
way loosing the thread, discovered that she moved to her aunt’s 
room. 

Mrs. Surridge was preparing for rest and had not heard 
the door open. She started and came forward at the sight of a 
blanched face and white-robed figure, standing framed by the 
darkness of the passage. 

“La, Susie!” she cried, “how you do startle a body. Sakes 
alive! what’s the matter now?” 

The girl came in, closed the door, and stood leaning against 
the foot of the bed. She spoke slowly, reiterating her sentences 
in a fashion that was quite novel. 

194 


IN LIMINE 


195 


^‘I want to talk to you, Auntie. I want to talk to you. I 
can’t sleep until I have talked to you. ” 

Mrs. Surridge moved forward and took her hand drawing 
her across the room. “You’ll catch your death, niece — an’ 
what else could one expect, with you standin’ there with hardly 
a cover for your pretty shoulders. La, Susie ! don’ be a ninny,” 
she hurried on, as the girl flushed crimson; “they are pretty — 
pretty as picters, an’ white an’ warm with sweet flesh an’ 
blood — which is more than you can say about picters an’ such.” 

She wrapped the soft girlish figure in a shawl, then with a 
quick, impulsive gesture, bent down and kissed her neck. 

“Sakes alive! how you do burn. Your neck’s afire, child — 
your neck’s afire.” 

“Don’t, please don’t,” Susie begged, struggling in her 
strong grasp. 

“It’s good for gells to know they’re beautiful, ’specially when 
they’re near to marriage,” her aunt insisted. “It’ll come, 
Susie. La! it’s bound to come. Sho! deary, don’t take on — 
it’s only your aunt fondlin’ you because she loves you an’ has 
no chick of her own to see settled.” 

“ You are very kind. Indeed I am grateful,” Susie returned, 
clinging to her impulsively, “but I want to ask you something.” 

Mrs. Surridge pushed her to a seat on the bed. “Aye, 
deary — an’ what’s that?” 

“ Father was saying, when I came through the kitchen a 
while ago, something about a debt — or some debts that he had. 
He was talking to Uncle, and when I passed he stopped. At 
supper, too, he spoke of the difficulty of paying debts when men 
grow old. He seemed much put out — much put out. What 
is it all about ? Can you tell me ? ” 

Mrs. Surridge at once grew grave. She faced the girl with 
a warning note in her voice. “It’s as well you asked me. 


196 


THE ISSUE 


Susie — for all the horses on the farm wouldn’t drag it out of 
George — it’s foolishness, that’s what I call it.” 

“What is? and why is it foolishness?” 

“Because, Susie, it’s a debt that you could wipe out.” 

The girl faced her with sudden energy. “That I could wipe 
out ?” she questioned. “I — I have no money.” 

“You have what is worth much more.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“What I say — yourself, child, your own pretty self.” 

“Who would take me in payment?” Susie demanded with 
bitter sarcasm. 

“Jim Saunderson would, an’ thankful.” 

“Oh don’t! don’t! don’t!” 

The girl’s cry was so heart-breaking that for a moment even 
the match-making instinct of this quaint bundle of interference 
quailed before it. But Mrs. Surridge had decided that it was 
necessary Susie should marry. She had decided that it would 
be unwise to allow her to wait longer for Elliott. She went 
farther and announced to Tom that such a proceeding would 
be followed by “the Lord knows what all,” and Tom, duly im- 
pressed and only vaguely guessing at her meaning, agreed. 
Mrs. Surridge continued therefore to urge her plan. 

“If it were possible,” she remarked, “to sit still an’ see you 
frettin’ yoiu: soul to fritters, I’d say no more. But it ain’t. 
Besides, I holt that one man’s as good as another in this case. 
You don’t know how you’ll come to love him — an’ then there’s 
father to remember, deary. That’s what I look at.” 

Susie sat rocking slowly to and fro, her cheeks aflame. “ Does 
Father owe this money to Jim Saunderson?” she threw out. 

“He has for a long while, an’ now he asks for it.” 

“And does he know of this — this proposal?” 

“La!” cried Mrs. Surridge breaking in with ready apology. 


IN LIMINE 


197 


“A course he does — only we don’t put it like that. Why, 
everybody knows of the debt an’ the payment that’s asked — 
same as if it had been in the papers.” 

“He has never said anything to me,” Susie faltered tearlessly. 

“That’s why I tell you, deary. Bless the gell, you know 
father would be sold up before he’d say a word. That’s what 
is troubling him — ^you know that, surely.” 

For some minutes there was a dead silence in the little room. 
Susie cowered against the bed-rail, her breast heaving convul- 
sively. Her breath came in quick, uncertain gasps; her fingers 
twined and intertwined. A strange look crept into her eyes. 
She faced her aunt, speaking swiftly: “Have you -heard any- 
thing of Jack?” 

“There’s rumours, Susie,” Mrs. Surridge admitted, caught 
napping by the question. 

“ Rumours of what ? Speak! Tell me — or I shall go mad.” 

Mrs. Surridge hedged. “There’s no sayin’ for certain. 
Sakes it’s ” 

“Is he safe?” 

“I don’t know. No one knows.” 

“Is he dead?” 

The girl’s voice rang with terrible earnestness. She started 
to her feet and seizing her aunt by the shoulders, gazed into 
her face with quivering lips; an awful terror dancing in her 
eyes. Mrs. Surridge tried to avoid the question. Her wits 
were a chaos under the catechism. But Susie held her trans- 
fixed as she reiterated the sentence: “Is he dead?” 

“Don’t look like that. Susie! it cuts me like a knife. Aye, 
aye — maybe it’s that. It is God’s will deary — that ” 

She stopped speaking. Susie had fallen back on the bed as 
she caught the full meaning of the broken sentences. She sat 
rocking to and fro with quick, nervous movement. “He is 


THE ISSUE 


198 

dead!” she cried out, “dead — dead! God has taken him from 
me He had no right. He was mine — he was mine.” 

“Child! Child! Susie, my deary!” her aunt protested 
aghast. 

“Dead! dead! He should have lived — and I have blamed 
him. Oh! he was mine — ^he was mine. Why have you taken 
my husband away? My husband — do you understand? 
Dead! dead! Oh God! why? ” 

“Susie! Have patience — ^have patience.” 

“Patience!” she broke out, swaying, hot with passion and 
excitement. “You don’t understand. He was my lover. 
Long ago we were to have been married; long ago it was all 
arranged. Jack!” the girl’s voice took a tender inflection at 
the mention of his name, “I loved you, dear — I loved you 
always. We grew up together. We were lovers always — al- 
ways. They let me think you had forgotten, and now they say 
you are dead — and that God has taken you because it was better 


“Susie, I never said it — you know me better.” Mrs. Sur- 
ridge vainly attempted to stay the storm she had raised. She 
leaned forward trying to catch the girl in her arms, but Susie 
sprang back. 

“No, you don’t say it, but others do, and you half mean it. 
God! I am tired of hearing of what God has done. It is always 
God — God, every time anything happens that hurts us. Mother 
quavered of God till my heart was sick. If a neighbour was 
drowned, it was God’s will; not the fault of a crazy ship. If 
a girl went wrong, it was God’s will; not her own. If the fac- 
tory smoke stifled us, it was God’s will, not the direction of the 
wind. Oh! I am sick to death of the nonsense. I am sick 
to death of it all.” 

Mrs. Surridge listened, still protesting her amazement: 


IN LIMINE 


199 


“Child! I am sorry to hear you say so; indeed, T would not 
have believed it possible from what IVe seen of you. Sit still, 
deary — don’t take on. It’s weary work, I know — but you’ll 
take comfort, in time you will.” 

Silence fell in the little room. Susie remained with her face 
buried in her hands; swaying, terribly in earnest. Suddenly 
she lifted her head and a question leaped from her lips: 

“How do you know that what you say is true?” 

“Because his boat was found.” 

“Where?” 

“Cast up on the mud, top of Sea Beach. It was the Garter 
Pier boat that he’d borrowed.” 

“How do you know? Did anyone see him?” Susie cried 
instantly. 

“His coat was found — tied up in a bundle an’ jammed under 
the seat. There was a letter in the pocket.” 

“Give it to me! Give it to me! It is mine — it must be 
mine,” she wailed in agony. 

“It was yours, Susie. You sent it to him. Steady, Susie — 
there’s no sort of comfort to be got from that.” She searched 
in her pocket and handed the note which she had obtained from 
her brother before he went out, and in pursuance of her plan 
of intervention. It was a little, crumpled, water-stained note 
the girl had written only a few days before Jack’s last visit. 
She seized it eagerly; spreading it out with fingers that shook. 

“Dear Jack, please, please come out to see me ” The 

words struck her. She moved to and fro, moaning, dumb 
with pain. Then checking her grief, caught at her aunt’s arm 
and whispered in hot expectation: “How do you know — 
How do you know he is ” 

In Mrs. Surridge’s mind only one fact loomed of any im- 
portance. The girl must not be allowed to wait for Elliott. 


200 


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She replied in even tones, the tones of one who did not at all 
recognise the nature of what was said: “Father tells me his 
boat was cut pretty nigh in half, Susie. He can’t ” 

“ Cut in half. What do you mean ? ” 

“There’s been an accident, child. He’s towin’ down river 
an’ suthin’ happened. The steamer has come astern, an’ it’s 
all over. ” 

The brusque recital of so grim a tragedy, given almost in 
Sutcliffe’s own words, forced a picture of the circumstances 
into the girl’s quicker brain. She had heard of these things; 
knew much of the swift and noiseless deaths of the river men; 
had seen the groups standing over stranded remains, whispering 
details of the end. The picture burned before her, and she 
clasped her hands over her eyes, striving to shut it out. She 
remained so still, so stricken with the pain of living that her aunt 
grew alarmed. She marvelled at what she could not compre- 
hend; approached and began to speak. But Susie started 
backward, her voice ringing with terror. 

“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me! Let me think. Hor- 
rible . . . horrible!” 

She sprang to her feet and faced her aunt. “How long 
have you known this?” she demanded. 

“ Maybe a month. Don’t fret — don’t fret — there’s a deary. ” 

“A month!” 

The exclamation fell like a bolt from heaven on plain, matter- 
of-fact Mrs. Surridge. She gasped with apprehension. Susie’s 
voice sounded again : ‘ ‘ Why was I not told ? ” 

“We dared not tell you,” she whimpered. 

“ And so you let me think he had forgotten. Kind . . . 
kind. ” 

“We were afraid it would kill you, child — we were afraid,” 
Mrs. Surridge moaned. 


IN LIMINE 


201 


‘‘Better so,^* she returned with hot, dry eyes. “Better so. 
Why should I live if Jack is dead? What use am I alone? 
Always we were one — always we were together. Oh! my 
dear, why did you not have mercy on me and tell me you were 
dead. I would have come — I would have come. ” 

She fell back among the pillows moaning pitifully. Mrs. 
Surridge cried, too, and strove to assure herself that she had 
acted for the best. She touched Susie’s lips, attempting to 
soothe her with caresses. 

“There’s others beside Jack that love you,” she whispered. 

The girl started as though she had been struck. Her eyes 
flashed anger. “Jim Saunderson!” she cried. 

Mrs. Surridge quailed. “Not alone,” she gasped, “there’s 
us: father, uncle, an’ me — what would we do, deary?” 

“You are laughing at me. Everyone is laughing at me. Oh I 
you are cruel! cruel!” 

Suddenly she leaped from the bed and stood tugging at the 
buttons of her nightdress. In a moment the flimsy fastenings 
were torn asunder and the dress flung to the ground. 

“I can’t breathe, I shall suffocate!” she cried with a curious 
laugh. “What does it matter to you whether I live or die? 
It doesn’t matter — nothing matters. ” 

“Susie! Susie!” Mrs. Surridge was aghast at the sight. 
She strove to speak but words failed her; she could only reiterate, 
“You know we all love you. ” 

The girl faced her with impetuous scorn. “ Oh, yes . . . 
I forgot. You all love me — and so, I am to be sold. Do you 
think that sounds consistent ? I am to be sold ? ” 

She leaned forward clasping her head with trembling hands, 
her hair streaming like a flood of gold about her shoulders, 
her breast heaving, her white skin aglow in the lamplight. Her 
eyes, flashing over crimson cheeks, looked out through a frame 


202 


THE ISSUE 


of glorious hair. “They are pretty shoulders, aren’t they?” 
she laughed, suddenly sarcastic. “A pretty breast, too. And 
all to be sold — all to be sold. You said so, mind! Of course 
I’m pretty. Do you think if I weren’t pretty anyone would 
bother about me? Come, tell me how much is this debt. 
Tell me so that I may have some idea of my value. ” 

Mrs. Surridge could only gasp: “Oh, Lawd! the gell’s mad. 
What can I do ? What can I do ? ” 

“You won’t tell me,” the voice went on, scathingly: “of 
course not. Is it likely? You, who tell me everything ? Then 
I must guess. What is it now ? twenty pounds ? thirty ? 
forty? fifty? You won’t say. I might have known it. Well, 
but there couldn’t be a bigger debt than that. Fifty pounds! 
Why, that’s not much for a beautiful girl — is it? A gentle 
girl, too — and loving. Trust me, I would never grow old 
or querulous or practise nagging.” Then again in the old 
key: “Auntie, I am beautiful, am I not ? It isn’t all a mistake, 
is it ? Tell me, tell me. ” 

The words poured out in a hot and babbling stream. The 
girl stood erect, blazing with scorn, indignation, contempt; 
without a vestige of self-consciousness, intent on her demand 
to be told. 

“You’re a little fool!” Mrs. Surridge snorted as she hastened 
toward her with a wrap. “Have done with your nonsense. ” 

Susie’s mood changed instantly. She came over, meekly 
awaited her aunt’s assistance, drew the proffered cloak about 
her, and huddled down into a corner of the bed. 

“Now you are cross,” she pleaded. “Don’t be cross — it 
is no use. Oh! I wish I could cry — ^I used to be able to cry. 
My head is splitting; my eyes are burning — why have you set me 
on fire?” 

She leaned forward and her aunt took her head on her broad 


IN LIMINE 


203 


bosom, soothing her as she would a child. “La ! ” she crooned, 
glancing anxiously at the clock. “La, there — there — rest 
quiet, poor dear, rest quiet — there’s a lamb. I wish,” she 
continued, sotto voce, as she strained her ears to catch the 
sound of approaching footsteps: “I wish them guzzlers no 
harm, but the Lawd look sideways on ’em if they ain’t in 
sharp.” She drew the cloak about the girl’s shoulders, but- 
toning it as she spoke. Susie sat beside her gazing into vacancy, 
silent, despondent; then, turning with a quick movement, she 
pointed across the room. 

“I see him, Auntie. You are quite wrong. Jack is not dead. ” 
The name fell with so much decision that, almost involun- 
tarily, Mrs. Surridge followed the girl’s glance with a question. 
“Where, Susie?” 

“There, pulling — pulling in that small boat. Look! how 
tiny it is. Can he be safe — can he be safe ? ” 

“ A course he can. He’s a sailor an’ knows how to manage.” 
“But the sea is wide — so wide and so lonely. If any 
wind comes — that little boat is no use. ” 

“Let’s hope it’ll stay cawlm,” Mrs Surridge returned. A 
conviction that the girl was mad had penetrated slowly to her 
brain. She argued that she must humour her, eke out the 
time until her husband returned and do all in her power to pre- 
vent excitement. The girl’s reply fell on her ears. 

“Because,” she was saying, “if anything happened to Jack, 
it would all go wrong — because, you see, I am his wife. ” 

“Susie, don’t you fret,” came the reply, “nothin’ can hap- 
pen to men — they are born percurious — so it can’t. ” 

“ That isn’t true. You know that isn’t true. You said your- 
self that Jack was dead.” 

Mrs. Surridge retreated. “Perhaps I made a blunder,” she 
suggested. 


204 


THE ISSUE 


“ Now you are telling lies. But it does not matter. I can 
see now. Oh! I can see quite plainly. S-h-h-h! the wind is 
rising. Listen! Oh, Jack! Jack!” She broke off abruptly, 
and stood pointing into the darkness. 

“ Sit quiet, Susie, sit quiet — there’s a dear, ” cried Mrs. Sur- 
ridge in an access of fear. 

“Look at the long wave rolling toward him. Oh! it is 
awful! He will be swamped. Jack — Jack! Auntie, can’t 
you see?” 

“ A course I can see,” she replied, simulating discovery. 

“ Of course you can — if only you know where to look. Any 
one could but first they must have been through the fires. 
See — how misty it has grown — and how the spray drives down 
the wind.” She held up one hand as though searching for 
signs of a breeze. “Look!” she cried, “it is quite damp — 
and now I can’t see him. Where is he? Jack! Jack!” 

The cry came from the girl’s heart as she stretched out her 
arms calling for her lover. Mrs. Surridge gripped her tightly 
round the waist. “Stay quiet!” she cried. “Maybe he’ll 
come again. ” 

Instantly the girl sat still. A solemn hush fell upon the 
room and for a space the harsh voice of the small American 
clock was the only note of unrest in all the lonely house. Susie 
reclined in her aunt’s arms. For a moment she appeared to 
sleep; then, again alert and eager, she sprang upright. 

“ Shall I tell you how I know he is not dead ? ” she questioned. 

Mrs. Surridge groaned. “La! yes— anything for a quiet 
life. Talk — maybe, it will give you repose. ” 

“It all happened so long ago ... it is difiScult to 
remember. It was before we were married, and Jack and I 
had been down river. Then of course we had to come back 
... but the moon was up and Jack was tired of rowing. 


IN LIMINE 


205 


So he took me in his arms and we drifted, just as we have 
drifted ever since . . . and all the time we came nearer a 
great swirl in the current a long way out at sea. 

“ Jack said it was the Gat . . . and that people die when 
they come there. But if they loved each other and were 
married they went past quite safely — but if they loved each other 
and there had been no time for a wedding . . . then they 

would be sucked down in the water. I didn’t think that fair; 
do you ? Because if there had not been time, you know it could 
not have been their fault. But of course we got by quite easily, 
for I had gone to sleep . . . and . . . and my 
husband was with me. ” 

“Your husband, child!” Mrs. Surridge started at the words; 
but Susie continued with the calm insistence of one telling a 
history which was common to the world. 

“Yes; didn’t you know that we are married?” 

Mrs. Surridge sighed as the girl sprang again to a sitting 
posture. “I could not forget such a thing. Auntie.” 

“No — women mostly remember marriage, one way or another, 
all the days of their lives.” 

Susie settled back in comfort and resumed with quick, ner- 
vous repetition. “No, no; I shall never forget. It was all so 
sweet . . . only the time was short — very short. They 

had turned me out; there was no where to go — besides the man 
was chasing me. Where could I go? Only to Jack — only to 
Jack. 

“It was a good thing he was there,” she continued after a 
slight pause, during which she had listened intently. “If 
he had not been there I don’t know what I should have done. 
Gone mad or gone bad — mad — bad: which is it? Oh! how 
these things puzzle me . . . and my head is splitting. I 
can’t think properly. Tell me — where ought a girl to go 


2o6 


THE ISSUE 


when she is turned out and there has’nt been time for a proper 
wedding ? Ought she to go to him ? He is her husband, you 
know. God made him her husband — as He makes everything. 
No, that isn’t right — He only allows it. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ” she 
broke into laughter, her voice thrilling weirdly. Then, sud- 
denly, without a moment’s pause, she started from her aunt’s 
arms and ran to the window. Someone was approaching the 
cottage. She drummed on the glass, crying out: “Yes, dear, 
I knew you would come. I have been waiting so long . . . 

so long. Oh, Jack! my darling, don’t stay away! Have 
mercy ! Have mercy ! ” 

Mrs. Surridge regained her side, and caught her round the 
waist. “ Steady, Susie, ” she cried. “It isn’t Jack — it’s father 
an’ uncle. Will you have ’em in to shame you ?” 

“I tell you it is Jack. He has been away so long that I 
nearly died. Let me see him! Let me see him! Jack! they 
are trying to keep me from you. Help! Help!” 

She struggled violently in her aunt’s arms. The two men 
were standing at the door beneath the window. In dread lest 
she should be overpowered, Mrs. Surridge thought of a means 
of calming her. 

“Susie!” she cried. “Listen. I’m wrong. It’s not father. 
It’s Jack right enough. But you can’t see him like this. 
Child, you’ve forgot yoiur dress. ” 

The lie sufficed. In an instant the girl was standing trying 
with trembling fingers to unbutton her cloak. Mrs. Surridge 
caught up the night-dress and handed it to her. “Put this 
on, ” she whispered, “ put this on, and then we’ll see Jack. ” 

Susie’s face flushed with pleasure. She gathered the dress 
in her hand and slipping it over her head, stood with pleading 
gesture struggling with the buttons. “Help me, help me,” 
she begged. “I didn’t think.” 


IN LIMINE 


207 


By the time their preparations were effected the men had 
entered and Susie was gazing expectantly at the door; watching, 
listening, swift to interpret sounds. “Why doesn’t he come 
up? Why is he waiting?” she cried. 

“If you’ll stand still an’ don’t offer to move, I will go an’ 
call him. ” 

Mrs. Surridge went outside and held the door closed behind 
her on gaining her promise. 

“George,” she whispered over the bannisters; “come up 
here. ” 

Sutcliffe mounted slowly. “What is it, sister?” he ques- 
tioned. 

“The gell’s mad. There’s no holdin’ her. She thinks 
you’re Jack Elliott — an’ she wants to see you.” 

Sutcliffe took a sudden grip on the rail. “You’ve told her 
then ? ” he asked with grim brevity. 

“Aye — she forced it out of me.” 

“Best have left it to me,” he groaned, “a job like that.” 

“Steady, brother. God give you strength. Come in an’ see 
her. Maybe it’ll rouse her. S-h-h-! She’s movin’.” 

Mrs. Surridge opened the door as she spoke and re-entered 
the room. And as Sutcliffe advanced from the landing Susie 
hurried toward him with outstretched hands. Her voice 
rang plaintively in the quiet house. 

“Jack!” she whispered. “Jack, my darling, why have you 
been so long away ? ” 

She paused faltering, uncertain, and staring with startled 
eyes — Sutcliffe was standing now in full light of the lamp. He 
waited in silence. 

“You — are — not Jack,” she breathed.“ You are not Jack. 
His hair was — dark; yours is white. He was tall and straight; 
you are — bent. ” 


2o8 


THE ISSUE 


She broke off abruptly. A quiver ran through her frame. 
She clasped her hands across her eyes. 

“ Susie Sutcliffe cried with a deep sobbing breath. ^*My 
liP Susie. 

She took down her hands to gaze. Her lips quivered. She 
cried with passion: “They said you were Jack. Go away! 
Send Jack to me! Send him to me!” 

“Lass — he’s gone.” 

“Gone?” 

The question fell with an awful insistence. She started for- 
ward, and seizing her father by the wrists, stared into his ashen 
face. 

“Do you tell me he is gone,” she whispered, “gone 
without one word — without one look — without one kiss? I 
don’t believe it. He would never leave me so — never — never! 
Oh God! call him back to me — call him back!” 

And the cord snapped. The girl broke into a passion of 
tears and fell at her father’s feet begging for mercy. 


Patt W 

Cbe iBeginning of tbe €nD 


CHAPTER I 
Saunderson Moves 

T he evening was closing in. Far away, behind the hills, 
the setting sun tinged the sky with streaks of gold and 
crimson; the woods lay in a bath of purple and the 
high elms, standing like sentinels beside the cottage, shivered 
as the cool wind swept down the valley. 

Susie was sitting in her window seat. Some weeks had 
elapsed since she had been struck down by the torture of that 
night spent in Mrs. Surridge’s room. During the early stages 
her life had trembled in the balance, she had been face to face 
with death; but nature had brought her, pale and wan, from 
the conflict. The girl who never before had known a day’s 
illness, whose life had been spent in the free country air, who 
had delighted always in abundant exercise, early hours, and 
simple fare, was not easily cast down. But the factor which 
most aided her at this time has yet to be stated. Her mind was 
now at rest. 

Jack was dead. There was no longer any room for dalliance 
with hope. Hope died in that terrible hour when Mrs. Sur- 
ridge had explained. The certitude of his death, the precise 
statements she had heard, the letter she had written, now 

209 


210 


THE ISSUE 


treasured, water-stained beneath her pillow, left her no loophole 
by which she might presently escape; nothing remained but a 
commonplace surrender to the forces by which she was hemmed. 
And now she turned with redoubled affection towards that father 
who had tended her so faithfully through life. Her father 
needed her. Her father’s future remained in her hands. 

Time, rolling on leaden wheels, had seen many weary days 
and nights at the girl’s bedside; the old man constant in his 
attention, jealous of his vigil. For the doctor, noting the effect 
of his quiet presence, had left him entirely master of the sick 
room, despite Mrs. Surridge’s wish to take watch and watch 
with him. 

And so, he was rewarded early one morning, “at low water,” 
as he afterward explained: “by a voice from the bed, just a 
quiet whisper of a voice as wouldn’t a been heard above the 
squawkin’ of a block at sea. 

“It come to me while I’m lookin’ out of the window, thinkin’ 
it’s tide time an’ the craft are all swung athwart Reach, lookin’ 
for the flood to come up. Eh! it’s a pretty sight at dawn, the 
river glintin’ yellow, the lights winkin’ dim, the ships all brimful 
of life, but so quiet; so near to death — ^just like my Susie — ^just 
like my Susie. Then her voice breaks in upon me — soft, so 
weary soft — ‘Father,’ — nothin’ more, an’ I turned round. 

“The ebb’s done, you see; done this half hour, an’ the flood’s 
come up good an’ strong. It’s the springs, you’ll remember; 
an’ when they do come along, they bustle that sharp, that you 
have to spry wiv your helium, as the sayin’ is. 

“Lawd! if I wasn’t proud, knock me down for an old fool 
that isn’t fit to have charge of a craft in any waters ; but I couldn’t 
say as much. You take my meanin’ — a job like that ? ” 

They had taken his meaning and given him a full share of 
praise, a thing he deprecated with a phrase. “As though a 


SAUNDERSON MOVES 


ill 


man wanted sleep,” he said, ‘‘when life’s in the scales wiv 
time.” 

Now Sutcliffe had sailed. Some days before his departure 
Susie had attempted to discover whether her aunt’s remarks 
as to his debts, had any basis in fact; but she had failed alto- 
gether to extort any proof. Her father had maintained a ban- 
tering demeanour, unutterably foreign to him, and the girl, 
reading between the lines with the quick instinct of womanly 
love and intuition, knew that her aunt had spoken the truth. 

She had been sitting watching the sunset and wondering 
how she could best serve her father, when the cottage door 
opened and she heard her uncle scrubbing his shoes on the 
mat. Her own door was ajar, the passage outside, in semi- 
darkness. Tom paused on the threshold to ask, under his 
breath, “Where’s Susie?” 

Mrs. Surridge replied: “Upstairs, lyin’ down.” 

“Asleep?” 

“She was asleep when I looked in just now — what’s wrong?” 

“I’ve seen that Saundisson, an’ ” 

“Hush! come into the kitchen ” 

Their whispers ascended the stairs; then her aunt’s voice 
grew louder. It was evident the conversation waxed in interest. 
Susie moved from her nook in the window and leaned over the 
bannisters. Her name was mentioned coupled with Saunder- 
son’s as she crept downward. 

“Saundisson claims the gell or the money,” said Tom Sur- 
ridge angrily. “I don’t hold with such nigger’s courtin’. It 
ain’t manly. ” 

“Susie mustn’t wait about — she must be woke up,” his wife 
retorted. 

Surridge made no reply; he was evidently nonplussed at find- 
ing himself in antagonism with his wife. 


212 


THE ISSUE 


“If George can’t find the money,” she resumed, “why don’t 
he say so an’ tell the gell of his trouble. I told her somethin’ 
of it six weeks ago this blessed day — an’ ” 

“An’ a nice muss you made of it, mother,” Tom replied 
with a rare outburst. Susie could almost see her aunt’s aston- 
ishment. She remained a moment listening, and the voice again 
took up its burden. 

“You’re as bad as George, Tom. La! why can’t you let it 
alone — you men are all a fair image of each other; you don’t 
understand gells any better than you can boil potatoes. Saun- 
disson’s a fine built man, an’ unless I’m a mile out, Susie will 
be his wife before many weeks have passed — an’ as comferable as 
a hen with a new brood of chicks. ” 

Tom groaned, “I don’t know. I don’t like him. ” 

“He’s too big an’ fine for your fancy, Tom,” Mrs. Surridge 
laughed; “I can’t remember you ever likin’ a big man. ” 

“I don’t know about that; I do know as Saundisson’s goin’ 
to sell up. O law! My law!” He paused with a gasp as a 
light step sounded on the steps and Susie entered, saying in her 
still voice: 

“What is he going to sell up. Uncle ?” 

She stood so quietly, with such white, drawn lips that Tom 
meditated an escape. He moved toward the door, muttering: 
“Who’s sayin’ anythin’ about sellin’ up? Seems to me you’ve 
been dreamin’ — an’ them pigs! O law! Hearken to Zulu — 

number four’s gettin’ ” he broke off in dismay; for Susie 

had intercepted his passage to the door, and now paused with her 
hand on the lock. 

“Never mind Zulu,” she said; “but tell me what Jim Saund- 
erson is going to do?” 

Tom looked at his wife; but that lady’s lips were firmly 
closed. He could see no help in her eyes. It was useless to deny 


SAUNDERSON MOVES 


^13 

any longer what he had said. The girl read him like a book. 
He drew near the table. 

^‘Saundisson has got father in a hole,’’ he blurted, ^‘an’ he’s 
puttin’ on the screw — twistin’ him, same as you’d twist a cow’s 
tail you wanted to hustle. ” Then amazed at his own effrontery, 
he gazed in astonishment at the calm lips putting a further 
question. 

“Has he asked for the — money then?” 

“Law! Susie, that’s a trifle — a trifle. He says, 'pay me — 
or,’ law . . . 'or I sell the house.’” 

Susie took a long breath, but stood firm. “ Where is Mother ? 
Is she still there ? ” she questioned. 

“He’s turned her out. She’s gone — but no one knows where 
she’s gone. In Abbeyville they say Saundisson chucked her 
along of her behaviour to you, Susie.” 

Mrs. Surridge intervened with a sigh: “Ah! There’s heart 
for you, Tom. ” 

Tom snorted. 

“That’s what I call heart,” his wife emphasised. “I doubt 
that if he had the power to squeeze her also, she would have 
been squeezed — an’ all for the sake of ” 

“Jim Saunderson may have done it for my sake. Auntie,” 
Susie returned, “and he may have done it simply because 
Mother is no further use to him. I shall always be inclined 
to doubt Jim Saunderson’s motives.” 

“Hear that. Mother? Law! isn’t that what I say?” Tom 
cried in triumph. Mrs. Surridge took no notice of her husband; 
she turned to the girl. 

“You are wrong,” she said. “Why look how good he was 
when you were ill. Do you think a man’s all bad as can act 
as he has?” 

“No, I don’t say that he has no good in him. We all have 


214 


THE ISSUE 


a little good. Still, sometimes it is so hidden by the bad that 
it hardly appears. But,’’ she turned to her uncle, “do you 
know when this — this sale is to take place ? Have you heard 
anything ? ” 

“It’s threatened for the next time father’s at home, Susie,” 
Tom replied with some hesitation. 

The girl took a deep breath. “Then we have a fortnight to— 
to find the money.” 

“That’s it, Susie; to a hair it is.” 

“And need be in no hurry,” Susie continued. “And — a 
fortnight is a long time. I shall write to — a friend of mine 
who may be able to help. So we will say nothing about it to 
anyone, please — and now we can have tea. I am so thirsty. 
Auntie, I could drink — oh, I don’t know what I could 
drink. ” 

Mrs. Surridge approached with persuasion written in every 
line of her comely face. She whispered: “Who is your friend, 
Susie ? Is it Mr. Oakley ? Is it ? ” 

“No. I could not ask him now. Come let us have tea. ” 

Tom waited to hear no more. He glanced shamedly into the 
girl’s face, stared at his wife, and disappeared in the direction 
of the sties. 

An hour later Susie was sitting again in her room gazing 
through the window. Twilight still lingered in the sou’west, 
a tinge only, very soft, very indefinite, blending with the light 
of the stronger moon. The pure, cold rays flooded the land 
and fell shivering through the panes, throwing elongated dia- 
monds across the floor. Trembling patches of light, blurred 
and misty, mingled with the darker spaces shadowed by the 
walls; a naked arm of wistaria moved gently without, throwing 
unstable lines across the sill. The infinite peace and solemnity 
of the scene sank into the girl’s heart. It led her away from the 


SAUNDERSON MOVES 


215 


weary episodes of recent days, bidding her remember what had 
been. 

She grew strong and confident as she sat there staring into 
the subtle light. Thoughts came and went in silence. With- 
out volition, without the smallest effort of will, the past swam 
down the stream of memory. She lived, as the old live, in 
the recollection of what had been, and the pictures came un- 
asked. 

Far through the night she perceived her room in the old 
home in Abbeyville, A pretty window, draped in white dimity, 
overlooked the river. It was dark out there, and the light on 
the Point blazed like a brazier, throwing recurrent flashes 
across her. A moment it was hidden : ah, a barge was crossing 
her line of vision; its sails shut out the glare. 

Farther in the distance a double tier of lamps burned steadily; 
they shivered in the waters almost to the garden foot. Hark! 
A bugle call. ‘‘Lights out’’ on the training ship. The young- 
sters were going to bed. How beautiful it was; how full of peace 
that outlook in the home of her childhood. Downstairs, stand- 
ing on the sofa in childish expectancy, she had waited for 
her father’s arrival; outside, at the edge of the garden, in later 
years she had waited and watched for the first indication of the 
black-sailed brig, moving from the shadowy reaches beyond; 
the reaches from whence her father always came with treasures, 
and she had assumed the right to search his pockets in the full 
knowledge that treasures were there. In that old home she 
had received them; an infinite variety of keepsakes, all 
stored now, all unreachable, telling the story of a father’s 
devotion and her increasing years. 

Everything she loved was in that house. There were her 
pictures, her books, her trinkets. All he and she held dear 
was congregated within the four walls of the old weather-board 


2i6 


THE ISSUE 


house where her father had suffered without a whisper of com- 
plaint during those years of her step-mother’s reign. There 
he had lived, struggling in the meshes of growing debts and 
diminishing wages, for interminable years — for her sake. All 
for her sake. A weary task. An unending sacrifice. And 
now, when life was nearly spent, when he was drifting slowly 
with the ebbing tide, now, Saunderson stepped forward and 
said, “Pay me what you owe. ” 

What could she do? How could she help. Compared with 
his great record, she could do but little in truth. Her future — 
she had no future. Jack was dead. It lay with her to save her 
father. In honour nothing else remained. Yet, how could she 
aid him ? 

By appealing to Saunderson’s generosity? 

As well appeal to the unending procession of stars and bid 
them wait her convenience; as well appeal to the rolling tide 
and beg mercy for some drowning wretch lying on sands already 
half submerged. For Saunderson knew no mercy, compassion, 
self-denial, nor any of the kindred virtues, and Susie was aware 
of it. 

There was but one way in which she could be of service, one 
way in which she could rescue her father from the clutches of 
his enemy. It was the way practised by women in all ranks 
and grades of life — her surrender. Tom Surridge’s words 
filled her ears: “Saunderson claims the gell or the money.” 

Terse, unutterably terse, but definite terms. 

The night had grown in silence. A faint whisper rustled in 
the trees; the wistaria nodded and beckoned before the window. 
Far away in the distant valley an engine shrieked and the dull 
roar of a train droned sleepily in the stillness. A blackbird 
awakened from his sleep, flew to an uppermost bough and piped 
a dozen stanzas in antiphone with his mate. The peaceful moon 


SAUNDERSON MOVES 


217 


shining with the light of a dead world, peered through the deep- 
set window and glanced across the quiet room. 

It searched amidst the white bed- wrappings; tinged the 
farther wall with a picture of waving branches, twigs, and cling- 
ing ivy, and fell lovingly on the figure of a young girl, kneeling 
with hidden face among the draperies at the bed-foot. And 
something of the ineffable purity of its glance was reflected in 
her suppliant attitude, as she paused [there, bowed in silent 
prayer before the Throne of God. 


CHAPTER II 


Conditional 


GAIN some hours had sped; hours full of unrest; full of 



halting action, fear, hope; then the news of Saunder- 
son’s presence at Abbeyville came and Susie knew that 
she could delay no longer. In a sense she was glad that 
she knew; for action could take the place of inaction; decision of 
indecision. Sutcliffe was still away. It had become imperative 
that she should move at once, if she would effect his salvation. 
She was glad of the certainty, and for the moment, revelled in 
the knowledge that at length she could be of some service. 

Early one afternoon, she started across country for Abbey- 
ville. It was the first time she had ventured on those hallowed 
paths since Jack had gone. She knew the way blindfold. It 
was the hunting ground of her childhood; a way she had 
learned to tramp in many a ramble; the way she had traversed 
with her lover that night when he had accompanied her across 
the woods to Swinfleet. Then, as in those earlier days, Jack 
had been at her side to beguile the time with love and kisses. 
Now Jack was dead, and she moved in silence across a wintry 
land, a land peopled by memories, alone and in dread. 

It was bitter to traverse it thus; bitter to recognise the cause 
of her loneliness; bitter to remember the errand that 
took her again to Abbeyville. She set her mind resolutely, 
determined to forget. Vain, all vain. Memory stood between 
her and oblivion. As well as attempt to stem the tide of Father 
Thames as to hush the voices whispering of what had been. 


21 $ 


CONDITIONAL 


219 


Here, by the cross-roads, barely four months ago, she had 
parted from her lover, and for the last time watched him out of 
sight. The last ? Aye, for on that other occasion he had fled 
in the dead of the night; while a dense fog had curtained the 
land, and she lay dazed with the agony of his departure. 

What an array of fateful incident jostled and surged about 
her. How monstrous the procession of stern events. Cheek 
by jowl with illness; cheek by jowl with death — all past — all 
done with, and only memory alive. It was hateful, torturing — 
a phantasy from which she could not escape. 

She came to the woods, walking quickly down the winding, 
rutted way. Here, on the right, was the copse in which Jack 
had taken her in his arms and asked her to be his wife. That 
was long ago . . . long ago. There, at the verge of the 

clearing, the woman had intervened; they had turned back; 
she had grown tired; Jack had made a bed of leaves and sheltered 
her with his arms — long ago . . . long ago. There, 

in that gorse-strewn dell, they had talked and planned and 
dreamed of a transcendant future. Now Jack was dead — yet 
she remained, lingering sadly to aid her father. 

Without his presence the world would soon have lacked 
hers. Without the recognition of his enduring faithfulness, 
no such ordeal would have been possible. Susie would have 
gone the way of many a sufferer. Quietly, without remorse, 
she would have entered the Silent Courts through the dark ave- 
nue she knew so well; but now that mode of freedom, paltry and 
jarring with a hateful cowardice, no longer existed. Her 
father lived. She stood in the gap between him and beggary; 
for, to him, and to all men of Sutcliffe’s type, the “House” 
remains anathema. 

This Susie knew only too well. She knew, too, that should 
he gain an inkling of her intention, he would prevent it. After 


220 


THE ISSUE 


all, she argued, did it matter whom she married? Jack was 
dead. His death freed her to do as she willed. Other women 
had married men whom they hated — why not? It was in the 
nature of things that people could not always do as they wished 
— unless they were rich. Then it mattered very little what 
they did. She found herself wondering what would have 
been Mr. Oakley’s attitude had she been rich. The question 
crossed her in so many ways; but always the answer remained 
steadfast: “In that case, he would have continued my friend.” 

She waited a long while sitting on a felled trunk near the 
pond at the Shorncombe end of the woods. The thoughts 
troubled her. The proximity of those well-remembered paths 
grew as a burden from which she could not escape. She was 
appalled at the trend of her fancies: Jack was dead. She 
was moving to save her father. Nothing else mattered. 

It was growing dusk when she at length passed from the 
shady footway and entered on the long village streets. These 
she traversed without interruption, and striking down the 
highroad, came to a narrow turning, a footway leading to the 
river. A tortuous, railed-in path, along the verge of old chalk 
cuttings, took her to the bush-grown dell they called the Spin- 
ney — the place of all others, consecrated in her memory to 
Jack. She crossed the turf and stood a moment among the 
trees, and the trees spoke to her, bidding her welcome with 
sad, soft voices. Out there was the river. Beside her the 
bushes. Above her the voices. She flung herself at the foot of 
the trees, grovelling in the grass. 

“It is mine! It is mine! Nobody must touch it — it was 
for me alone. See, here are the crosses he cut: those were for 
kisses. Here is my name — twined with his: that was for luck. 
This branch he broke away from yonder: it was for me to lean 
against. It is mine — mine — mine. Jack made it for me. 


CONDITIONAL 


221 


Now Jack is gone and I am alone. I do not want it. I can — 
never want it again. 

“Oh! give me strength. God help me and teach me how 
to pray! When I was little I prayed for everything. Then 
mother came and I could pray no more. Now I cannot pray. 
I am miserable — heartbroken — fallen. I have done wrong. 
I have done nothing right and I am afraid ... I am 
afraid of myself . . . and so I ask for help. Oh, God, 

give me strength — teach me what I must do.’’ 

Her voice echoed amidst the trees and the trees looked down 
through leafless arms, murmuring, cajoling, whispering of the 
one great certitude — death. She looked up, sobbing with the 
burden of a sorrow too heavy to be borne. She lay exhausted on 
the turf, staring out upon the winding river, and always the 
one answer came to her: the only certainty is death, there is 
no other — none. 

The violence of her grief had brought exhaustion, but the 
night restored her. She rested after a time upon her arm, 
watching the familiar scene. The quiet solemnity of the still even- 
ing; the whispering, friendly trees, leaning out with that strange 
answer; the glinting river with its load of moving shipping, and 
her own desire for guidance, brought the relief she craved. 
She was less breathless, less excited, less fearful now. She 
sat a long while staring into the night, and the night soothed 
her as only Nature can soothe her children. The future faded 
from her vision. Just a short, and perhaps stormy, interval 

awaited her — then Something moved on the path close 

at hand. She stood up and the denial of that whispered 
answer, all unrecognised as it was, confronted her. 

Tony Crow paused on the grass before her. Tony Crow 
the village blacksmith, the man of many inches and the heart 
of a little child— he bore the denial. He said in his strangely 


222 


THE ISSUE 


mixed dialect: “Ahdhowt ah saw sommat flutterin’ abaht 
t’trees. Socks! ah’m praad t’see ye, lassie.” 

Susie shook indecision to the winds and advanced to meet 
him. 

‘T didn’t notice you,” she cried. ^‘Have you been here 
long? I came over to — to look at the old place again. You 
see ” 

“Then it’s weel ah commed this way, ” he interrupted. 

“Why?” 

“Because you could na get in. Susie, the bums are in t’owd 
house. What is father doin’?” 

She replied with scarcely a quaver: “That is curious, for 
I came over on purpose to arrange it. You see Father is away. 
Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Saunderson, Tony ? ” 

“ He’s on t’sea- wall. Gone to look round Hewull 

be cornin’ back presently ah knaw. Socks! ” he added shuffling 
with his feet on the gravel, “but ah’m glad t’hear you c’n 
settle it. Ye may have perceivet thot ah have no great love 
for Saundisson — ah weesh ah had the power, if ah wud not 
bring him oop wi a rahnd turn — ah’m dommed, an’ thot’s 
Yerkshur. Gude nicht, lassie.” 

He disappeared down the path, his long legs moving swiftly, 
his arms swinging, his head erect and menacing. But Susie 
did not see. Indeed she scarcely heard his words, that other 
phrase, unspeakable and degrading, rang in her brain: “the 
bums are in the old house.” Anger mastered her. For a 
while as she walked toward the river her thoughts were in 
tumult; but again the cool night air soothed her and she recog- 
nised the futility of battle, the uselessness of strife, the neces- 
sity for calm and unimpassioned thought. She reached the sea- 
wall and stood looking out into the dying afterglow. 

How long she paused there, how long the pictures of her 


CONDITIONAL 


223 


past life flashed before her, she did not know. The only recog- 
nised fact was the heavy and irregular sound made by Saun- 
derson as he advanced to meet her. Then his voice, with that 
curious, ringing tone, so thrilling and yet so hateful, fell on her 
ears: “Susie, I didn’t think to see you here.” 

She approached the object of her visit at once: “Father is 
still away,” she announced: “he was unable to come — and so 

}f 

“Father has never wanted to come, Susie, so far as I can 
make out,” he broke in with a touch of anger. 

“Don’t say that — don’t say that. He has had so much 
trouble — or he would have paid you. ” 

“I won’t disbelieve you,” he replied with a tinge of sarcasm; 
“ still he might have arranged to answer my letters.” 

“Your letters?” 

“Several — all unanswered.” 

“Father is a poor scholar; he can’t write well — or — read 
much.” She faltered the fact as if in extenuation, but 
Saunderson pushed it aside with a brusque gesture. He said 
roughly: 

“He might have shown em to those who can. ” 

“You don’t know him. Indeed, indeed you don’t. He 
could not do that. He never tells strangers of his affairs.” 

“He need not have done that either,” Saunderson returned, 
still with the tinge of sarcasm. 

Susie paused; she knew they only fenced with words, and 
wished unutterably that he would say what he had to say — 
what she knew he would say, presently, when this fencing, this 
stupidity was over. She looked up and discovered his eyes 
were fixed upon her. He was holding out his hand — advan- 
cing to take hers. He was speaking also. 

“Father might have shown them to you, Susie,” he said 


224 


THE ISSUE 


and reached her side. She watched him, and the question 
moved on her lips: 

“ And now it is too late ? ” 

‘Tt is too late unless — unless ” 

‘‘Well?” 

“Unless you care to change your mind, maybe.” 

The girl was conscious of one thing during this dialogue. 
The suggestion was hers; the sentences were hers; but beyond 
yawned a gulf. She had no volition in the matter. The con- 
versation went on the lines made inevitable by the man with 
whom she spoke. She turned towards him and again words 
fell from her lips: 

“You know I would save him — if I could.” 

“Then you shall!” he nearly shouted. 

She lifted her hand and he drew back as though ashamed of 
his vehemence. 

“You know I do not love you . . . you know ” 

“I know that I love you,” he continued swiftly. 

“That I love ” she essayed and paused. 

“Never mind your love,” he broke in with rough eloquence; 
“think of me. Think of the old man. Think of the smoothin’ 
down of difficulties for all. Love! You needn^t do much 
lovin’. I can do all that — I love you enough for forty. I 
love you so as no woman was ever loved before. I love you 
with a love that burns the soul-case out of me. I’m fair sick 
with longin’, with waitin’ an’ playin’ the fool. Come to me, 
Susie!” he moved a step nearer, speaking more softly, “come 
an’ even if you don’t love me, it makes no sort of difference. I 
love you — an’ your love for me will come.” 

The girl shrank before the passion of his appeal. The 
words appalled her. She could not speak. She found his 
fingers gripping hers, drawing her to him and a sudden 


CONDITIONAL 


225 


lethargy overcame her. She found herself sinking in his 
arms. 

“You are mine — mine/’ he whispered in her ear. “My 
Gawd, Susie, you are mine!” 

His passion aroused her, she struggled violently for freedom, 
crying aloud her conditions. “Stay! You must prove 
yourself worthy of my trust — you must — you must! How 
dare you attempt to hold me! Stand back — or I will never 
speak to you again.” 

He released her instantly. He was stung by the quick hard 
tones; but still he watched her; still looked hungrily into her 
quivering face. 

“What must I do?” he asked at length. “Tell me what 
I must do. ” 

She faced him, striving to speak without hurry. “You have 
put some one in the old house. It was ungenerous; you must 
send them away — send them at once.” 

“If you wish it,” he replied. 

“You will give me a receipt for this — money?” 

“I will, Susie — when you are mine.” 

“I will marry you. You promise never to make any further 
claim on him — you promise that before God ? ” 

“Never, Susie — before Gawd I promise it. But it’s on one 
condition, you understand that.” 

“I understand,” she returned without a tremor; “that I am 
to be your wife.” 

“That’s your promise?” he questioned, half in doubt. 

“Yes.” 

“ When — to-morrow ? ” 

“That is impossible. You must give notice. The day 
after, if you wish — at the registry office in Riverton. You 
understand? and you will bring the — papers?” 


226 


THE ISSUE 


“I will— I will.” 

“I told you that I do not love you — that I ” 

He broke in with a swift sentence. “No matter.” 

“And you have heard about — about ” Susie paused, a 

sudden tremor filled her voice, and Saunderson picked up the 
phrase: 

“About Jack Elliott? Of course I have.” 

“You know that I was driven from home — by my mother — 
and that ” 

“Susie, I know all.” 

She pursued the subject with calm intonation ; but with pulses 
that leaped and throbbed and burned: “And you would marry 
me — no matter what had happened ” 

Again the hurried and passionate tones of the man overcame 
her own. He cried out with sudden vehemence: “I would 
marry you, Susie, if you told me you slept that night in the 
gutter. I’d marry you if you told me you’re Elliott’s wife. I’d 
marry you no matter what had been. Why ? Because I love 
you — because I’m mad, a fool wiv longin’ — fair dizzy wiv the 
strain of waitin’ — so now you have me on the hip.” 

Susie shuddered involuntarily. Her face was ashen, her 
voice scarcely reached a whisper. 

“I think,” she said, “there is nothing more to speak of.” 

“Except — what time will you meet me in Riverton?” 

“Eleven o’clock. Will that do?” 

“It will do if you say so. Everything will do — only look 
at me an’ say you’re glad to be able to square this trouble; that 
you will come to love me with time; that you don’t hate me 
now — say it, Susie.” 

She faced him, looking very white; her voice tremulous and 
full of tears: “I am glad ” she said, then halted. 

“ Jim,” he suggested. 


CONDITIONAL 


227 


“lam glad we have been able to arrange it — and — but you 
will bring the papers. I shall not marry you until I have the 
papers.” 

“No further, lass?” he questioned, watching her closely; 
“can’t get on with it any further — yet? Well . . . I’ll 
bring the papers. I’ll wait, Susie. I would do more than that 
to get your love. You understand me. You know there is 
nothin’ I wouldn’t do to get you — nothin’ — nothin’ on all 
God’s earth. Come . . . kiss me . . . Susie; let us 
begin all over again.” 

She looked round helplessly, averting her face. “Oh! I 
can’t,” she begged. “Not yet — not yet.” 

He drew back with a touch of disappointment. “I’ll wait,” 
he said. Then suddenly broke out; “Susie, do you know what 
this means to me? Do you guess? No; you can’t. But I’ll 
tell you. It means strength — it means power — it means hap- 
piness. With you to help me I’ll climb high. With your love 
to aid me my stumblin’ block goes. I’m not educated as you 
are — we will work an’ push forward. I will lead these sweated 
workers. I’ll help them get their deserts — a fuller wage; a 
stronger position. The masters shall come to know 
there’s somethin’ in Win’bag Saunderson after all — and you 
will help me ? Susie! say you will help me.” 

“I will try,” she faltered. 

“I ask no more,” he replied. 


CHAPTER III 


Tom’s Defence 

I T WAS the morning of the sacrifice. The morning of 
the day named after the one-eyed god of Scandinavian 
mythology whose wisdom is proverbial — Wednesday, and 
the country lying under a pall of clouds which had shrouded 
the sky since sunrise. 

Susie had been up for hours watching the falling rain and 
waiting to speak to her uncle. Tom Surridge usually journeyed 
to Riverton on Wednesday and on this occasion the girl was to 
accompany him. She had preferred her request so eagerly on 
the night she returned from Abbeyville, that Surridge, noting 
her white and pleading glance, promised to go, “come wet or 
fine.” He had wondered in his simple and passive fashion 
what made her so earnest. But there his curiosity ended, for 
Susie had made him promise that he would not divulge her 
secret, and he, being mindful of another occasion, attempted 
nothing in the way of comfort. Thus, it was not until they were 
ready to start, that Mrs. Surridge was made cognisant of the 
intended trip. 

She was instantly loud in her expression of the folly of all 
mankind, and her husband in particular, when presently Tom 
ventured to side with Susie. “Sakes! child, you’ll catch your 
death,” she asserted. 

A wistful expression crept into the girl’s eyes, but she smiled 
and moved towards the door. Mrs. Surridge recognised that 
her arguments had no weight. She shook her head sadly — 

328 


TOM’S DEFENCE 


229 


“Well, if you must go, put on a jacket under your rain cloak: 
you shan’t go unless.” 

“Thanks, don’t bother about me. Auntie — see, I am quite 
warm.” 

She held forth her hand, and Mrs. Surridge caught it in her 
own: “ Some people,” she remarked, “ fair stagger a person with 
their onaccountable contrariness. If it’s hot, you’re like a 
blessed icicle; if it’s cold and rainin’ an’ miserable as a wash’us 
with no winda, you’re burnin’ like the sun through a presim. 
Go along! Put on your coat — I have no patience with you.” 

Half an hour later Susie was seated beside her uncle and 
the trap was carrying them fast toward Riverton. The girl 
was strangely silent, and Tom, to make his abstraction less 
apparent, had found it necessary to bestow so many orders and 
flicks of the whip on the mare, that his patient servitor felt 
distinctly ill-used and resentful. By the time they reached 
the cross roads at the top of the hill Susie found courage to 
say: 

“Will you be very busy to-day, Uncle? Could you put the 
horse up somewhere for an hour?” 

Tom instantly forgot the worries of driving. “I can put her 
up if you want me to,” he answered. “I can’t say as I have a 
power o’ work to do. What is it you want ? ” 

“ I am going to be married,” she returned more distinctly. 

Tom gulped with astonishment. He replaced the whip in its 
socket and rapped out crescendo variations of his most useful 
swear-word. “Law! Oh, law! My law!” Then with an 
incredible twist, “ Married ? ” 

“Yes — and I want you to help me.” 

“Susie, you’re jokin’ — surelie you’re jokin’.” 

“Indeed, I’m not.” 

“Then — then you ought to be,” Tom said this with huge deci- 


230 


THE ISSUE 


sion; but reading in her eyes that this opinion carried no weight, 
he fell back on entreaty. ‘‘Why, where’s father, an’ auntie, 
an’ the white dress an’ fal-lals, Susie? Wheer’s any of the 
things they have at a weddin’ ? An’ who’s it to be ? ” 

“Jim Saunderson, Uncle.” 

“ Susie, I’m goin’ back. I can’t listen to sech things. There 
would be ructions if I did. An’ what my old woman, your 
auntie, my dear, would say, goodness onlie knows. Why, 
earthquakes, an’ wars, an’ sudden deaths would be a fool to it. 
Whoa, mare! Whoa!” 

He checked the trap as he spoke and sat watching the girl’s 
face. She half -rose, pushing aside the apron. “If you go 
back I shall walk,” she said very distinctly. “ Let me get down 
please.” 

“You can’t walk, child — it’s as wet as wet, an’ we are more 
than two miles from Riverton.” 

She put her hand on his arm with a caressing gesture: “Then 
drive on — there’s a good, kind uncle. I must go. I have 
promised. It will make no difference.” 

Tom Surridge groaned and gave the mare a cut that sent her 
onward with renewed vigour. “Of all the trapesin’s I’ve ever 
been on,” he remarked uncomfortably, “this is the licker. 
Why, what’s the use of me at a weddin’? I don’t know any- 
thin’ about weddin’s. I’ve only been at one myself, as I know 
of, an’ the old woman dragged me through that by the scruff, as 
you might say. Law! what’s the use of havin’ me? Why it’s 
no use — you might as well have Zulu to see you straight as 
me.” 

“There will be nothing for you to do, except witness,” she 
urged, “you can’t refuse — you won’t refuse.” 

“Refuse!” he cried in great perturbation, and again, “wit- 
ness! Why, what do I know about witnessin’ an’ such? 


TOM’S DEFENCE 


231 


Nuthin’. Less than nothin’. Wait a bit, my deary; don’t you 
go an’ make a blessed hash of it . . . an’ what about the 

letters if they come ? ” 

She faced him with cold decision. “No letters can come 
now; or, if they do, you must keep them.” 

He made no further remark. The girl’s quiet insistence 
effectually silenced him. He held his peace as was his custom 
when worsted by the severer oratory of his wife. 

It was but little short of eleven o’clock when the trap woke 
the echoes of the quiet, wide street in which is situated the River- 
ton registry office. As they approached, Saunderson emerged 
from the shelter of an adjoining archway and came to meet 
them. He was dressed in his most dazzling war-paint. A blue, 
braided, peak cap; a blue reefer suit, velvet collar and an elabor- 
ate vista of shirt front adorned his heavy frame. About his 
shoulders, as a protection from the inclement weather, hung a 
yellow oilskin coat. His face and beard dripped moisture 
and his bushy hair shone with oil and trickling rivulets of 
rain. He came forward and saluted Susie with a quick sen- 
tence, then turned toward the door of an adjacent bar. Here 
he engaged a room and ordered refreshments. They stood in 
a circle about the small table and Saunderson produced a 
bundle of papers. 

“I brought them with me as promised. Look at them: 
bill o’ sale, receipt, George Sutcliffe’s paper given to me when 
he had the money, int’rest papers — all square an’ regular. 
Turn them over, Susie; turn them over an’ see if they are 
right.” 

She examined them with trembling fingers. They were her 
purchase money; the price of her father’s liberty; the price of her 
beauty. In a few hours she would have redeemed them. She 
folded them slowly and handed them to her uncle. 


THE ISSUE 


23 ^ 

“Yes,” she answered. “They are what you promised: 
hadn’t we better go ? ” 

Saunderson moved over and took her hand. “You’ll give 
me better thanks than that, Susie?” he whispered, drawing 
her to him. She submitted passively to his caresses, but the 
power of the man’s arms frightened her. She drew back. 
Saunderson did not appear to notice the action. He was 
flushed. The vein in his forehead throbbed noticeably. So 
they passed over to the registry office, and in fifteen minutes 
Susie emerged, a bride of nineteen, leaning on the arm of 
a man whose years outnumbered hers by more than two to 
one. 

Saunderson moved briskly down to the trap with the air of one 
on whom the world smiled. His eyes twinkled as he made 
ready to mount. 

“Now,” he said, “If Mr. Surridge will favour us with his 
company, he’ll drive us down to the pier. I want you to look 
at the schooner — you’ve not seen her yet, Susie. I would like 
to show her.” 

Surridge discovered no enthusiasm in the matter. He was 
ill at ease and had no wish to examine the beauties of the Blue- 
bell; but he desired to keep within reach of Susie, and consented. 
They drove in silence to the pier. Here Saunderson alighted 
and taking the girl in his arms, lifted her to the pavement and 
hailed a boat which seemed to have been waiting his orders. 
His voice rang with pride. I 

“Now, my sons,” he cried “up alongside wiv her. Look 
slippy. It’s almost high water. This way, Susie — hold on to 
me — come on. Uncle, there’s a boy lookin’ after the horse. 
This way — this way.” 

In ten minutes they were standing on board the schooner 
and Tom was staring at the flapping canvas. Presently he 


TOM’S DEFENCE 


233 


approached Saunderson with a question which had gradually 
assumed shape: 

“ What’s them things bangin’ for ? Why don’t you tie ’em up ?” 

The skipper replied with a grim touch of humour: Because 
we’re goin’ to use ’em.” Then in a shout to the men forward: 
“Heave short there!” 

Susie drew near. She understood by the orders and the 
noise forward, what was impending, and dared hope for further 
respite. “You are sailing, then,” she whispered. “I didn’t 
know; but, you will put us ashore first — you will give me time 
to get my things. It has been so hurried I could not bring them 
with me.” 

Saunderson caught her in his arms. “Never you mind 
about your things,” he laughed, “we’re goin’ where there’s 
things in plenty — an’ the money to buy them is in my pocket.” 

Surridge turned on him with a flash: “It’s not honest 
work. It’s a cruel business; it’s kidnappin’ — that’s what it is. 
Why, if I’d known what you were leadin’ me to, I’d not have 
come. I’d have seen the lass dead first.” He shouted the 
words as he danced on the deck, snapping his fingers in Saun- 
derson’s face, but the big man only laughed. 

“Don’t you make a song about nothin’. Susie’s my wife, 
not yours,” he cried. 

Susie slipped over and laid her hand on Tom’s arm. “Never 
mind me,” she faltered, “it’s only a little sooner than — ^I 
thought. Leave us: I am quite safe with Jim.” 

Tom Surridge pushed her back. “You hold your tongue!” 
he cried. “I’m not going ashore without you — I’ll see him to 

— to ” He turned to Saunderson, shouting: “You’re 

a big chap — an’ I’m a little un. But I don’t stand by an’ see 
this. Let Susie come with me — let her come an’ get her 
things.” 


234 


THE ISSUE 


“I’ll see you in flames first.” 

“That settles it.” 

As Surridge said this he darted straight at his big opponent 
and aimed a blow at his head. Saunderson saw him coming 
and caught him under the ear before he could reach. 

“Stand back, fooll” he shouted savagely; “d’ye think I’m 
to be stopped by a whipper-snapper like you? Lumme! I 
could kill you.” 

Surridge was lifted off his feet by the blow. He rolled 
across the deck half -stunned and leaned against the rigging; 
but in a moment he returned to the encounter. He shouted 
aloud his contempt. 

“Whipper-snapper I may be — fool I may be; but, by law! 
I ain’t a coward.” He snatched an iron belaying pin from the 
rail. “If arms can’t do it,” he asserted, “maybe this here 
poker can.” 

He was under Saunderson’s guard before the skipper realised 
what was to be the new mode of attack. “On the shins is a 
a good place for niggers!” he yelled, dancing briskly to and fro; 
“I shouldn’t wonder if it’s the best for you!” Two smart 
blows on the legs followed, then Saunderson landed a heavy 
thump on the little man’s head. 

“O law!” he gasped, jumping about and watching his 
opportunity to reach the skipper’s arm, “O law! my crust is 
about as hard as the old woman’s pies. O law! that ain’t 
nothin’. How’s that, eh, Guv’nur?” He brought the belay- 
ing pin down with crushing force, and Saunderson leaped back 
with a yell of pain. His arm dropped limp at his side. He 
stood feeling it, and Surridge paused in speechless concern. 
“You’ve got it,” he remarked at length. “If this here poker 
ain’t a beauty, I don’t know. Come on, Susie.” He was 
bleeding profusely from the blows he had received, but appeared 


TOM’S DEFENCE 


235 


quite unconscious of his hurts. He was entirely occupied with 
the result of his strategy. 

Saunderson’s answer was terrible. One moment he danced 
in an agony of pain, then his eyes blazed. ^Tt’s broke!” he. 
yelled, and a torrent of oaths fell. Then : “ Take that ! 
Gawd! take that,” he shouted, and Surridge lay at his feet 
insensible. 

He turned to the crew with an angry roar: ‘‘Avast heav’in! 
Lay aft here an’ get this drunken fool ashore! Get him ashore 
an’ look slippy back. We’re losin’ the tide — we’re losin’ the 
tide.” 

The men knew Saunderson. They knew his strength, his 
violence if opposed, and consulting their own personal safety, 
did his bidding with the alacrity born of fear. Thus, in less 
than half an hour, the Bluebell was slipping quietly down 
Reach; moving amidst the tangled traffic under the eye of a 
skipper half drunk with pain and mortification; while Susie, a 
wife of scarcely an hour’s standing, lay on the cabin settee, too 
dazed to know what was happening. 

It was eloquent of the persistence, the dogged and bull-like 
obstinacy of this man, that although he was undoubtedly suf- 
fering intensely, he had no thought of then going ashore to see a 
doctor. To do so meant detention; the possible flight of Susie; 
any one of the many dangers he saw on the horizon of his fears. 
Undrilled, undisciplined, with the tags and headlines of modern 
newspapers to guide him; without self-control, without creed, 
without any of the old restraining influences; with wits sharpened 
by a staccato educational system and the voices of highly placed 
democrats as his tutors, he perceived only the necessity for 
movement; for a resolute persistence in the plan he had mapped 
out for his future. Nothing else would avail him. The 
Bluebell must sail. She must leave Riverton for many reasons. 


236 


THE ISSUE 


Susie was his wife. Therefore he must sail. Bye and bye, 
he told himself, he would be able to land somewhere — mean- 
while he must “grin and bear it.” He had accomplished 
more difficult tasks in his life. He would accomplish this. 

A few miles below Riverton stands one of the forts in the 
second line of Thames defence. A low granite circle, with 
grim, iron-studded masks, conceals the guns and men. A 
signal-man stood on the verge of the battery waving flags. 
Some of the garrison were out with their launch, laying mines. 
But Saunderson did not see her; he was occupied with the 
pressing details of his position, until a voice rang out close 
under the BluebelVs bows: “Hard a-starboard! hard over. 
Where the devil are you going?” Then as he glanced under 
the mainsail, he discovered the uniforms of the R. E’s, and 
heard the officer shout, “Full speed astern, Quartermaster — 
both engines.” 

Saunderson jammed his wheel over and by the aid of the 
double evolution, the schooner scraped past without mishap. 
He crept down to leeward and hailed the officer in extenuation; 

“I’m fair dizzy wiv pain, sir. I’ve broke my arm.” 

‘ ' Broken your arm, eh ? Then get ashore and see the Medico, 
You are dangerous.” 

“ At the battery, sir ? ” 

“Aye.” 

“Right, sir— an’ thankee.” He turned to the men, address- 
ing them in a series of shouts. “Let your fore yard run sharp 
up. Mate. Haul in on your port braces. Down jib an’ light 
stay-s’ls. Stand by to down kellick.” 

Susie was seated in the cabin, listlessly cognisant of the 
ship-board turmoil, until the sound of running halliards and 
the rush of the cable awoke her. Then in a moment she moved 
to the companion-way and stood looking about. 


TOM’S DEFENCE 


237 


The anchor was down. The wind flattened the sails against 
the masts. They clung black and rigid agaidst the spars and 
rigging, holding the vessel aslant with her head pointed toward 
the Essex shore. The Mate, with another, was holding a boat 
alongside and Saunderson stood on the rail near the short ladder. 
He caught Susie’s glance and cried out cheerily that he was 
going ashore to see a doctor and would be back again in no time. 
Five minutes later the splash of oars told her they were gone. 

She crept to the side and stood watching the vanishing boat. 
In the distance were other boats. Riverton loomed in a yellow 
and red haze, far on the horizon. A boy leaned over the bul- 
wark forward. He was whistling “The Little Alabama Coon.” 


CHAPTER IV 


The Sea-wall 



^HE news of Susie’s marriage was echoed in Abbey ville 


- 1 - within an hour of the Bluebell’s departure. Mrs. Crow 
had been in Riverton on a shopping expedition and the lack of 
material for gossip had brought her into the waterside streets, 
where she espied the tokens of a melee outside a public house 
near the entrance to the pier. 

This was altogether too obvious a chance of gaining know- 
ledge of other people’s affairs to be missed. She stepped 
within and was speedily put in possession of the facts by the 
battered Surridge, who told her what had happened and begged 
her to see her husband. 

Mrs. Crow lost no time. She returned at once to the village 
and watered the streets with the news. Tony paused in the 
midst of his work and gazed at his wife who presently stood 
before him hot and flustered. 

“Socks!” he cried. “ Wha telled ye?” 

“Tom Surridge hisself. He’s beat so’thin’ cruel — same 
a’most as if he’d bin hit wi a bloomin engine.” 

“Gotten it bad then, Missis? Puir Tammasl Teddy — 
gude lad, drap t’tongs; shut oot t’fire. Ah’m finishet fer t’day.” 

He stood a moment in silence, struggling to think while 
the boy babbled incoherently the details of his work. 

“ Wheer’s Sutcliffe ? ” he questioned at length. “ Dost knaw 
whither Tantalus has come home?” 

“Nay; she’s at sea, Tony.” 


238 


THE SEA-WALL 


239 


“Does t’owd man knaw Susie’s wed t’yon sluckit skeeper?” 

“No; he don’t know no more than Adam.” 

“Then ah’m dommed if ah’m not left t’fix it masen.” 

With this enigmatical rejoinder he closed and locked the 
smithy door and accompanied by his wife went home to think it 
out. This operation was difl&cult of accomplishment. Any- 
thing in the form of mental argument was impossible with Tony 
Crow — he required assistance always. Indeed he would rather, 
any time, manipulate half a ton of red-hot metal, than consider 
for a dozen minutes. He gave voice to his ideas after cau- 
tiously shutting the door. 

“When ah see Sutcliffe last, he said to me, ‘Tony,’ he says 
‘there’s trouble in the wind — thou’lt look after t’lass whiles I’m 
awa.’ An’ I promise!. Noo she’s wed — Missis, what will I 
be at ? ” 

“It’s a pecurious business, Tony — all through it is,” Mrs. 
Crow returned sententiously; “him hav’in a shadda an’ all.” 

The blacksmith sprang round with sudden energy: “Shadda, 
wumman! What shadda? Have ah been cacklin’ in ma 
sleep, or wha tolled ye of me suspeecions ?” 

“La! how you do jump down a person’s throat. I don’t 
know what you’re drivin’ at. Everybody knows what I speak 
of — there’s no sort of secret about it. What do you mean — 
you an’ your suspicions?” 

Tony drew his hand across his forehead. He stared at his 
wife with dull eyes. “Socks! is thot aa’?” he exclaimed, then 
added after a short pause. “Noo, lissen. Ah’m goin’ in 
t’ Riverton t’ find Susie an’ t’find summat else. Nay, Missis 
ah’m sayin’ no more, for ah don’t want t’village abaht ma heels. 
Just you remember what ah said — ah’m goin’ t’Riverton t’find 
Susie.” 

He had divested himself of his grimy apron and had donned 


240 


THE ISSUE 


a less picturesque jacket; then, discovering there was sufficient 
time to catch a train, set off without more ado and in less than 
an hour was standing on the sea-wall below the town. 

He had already interviewed the loungers who congregate 
about the piers at the waterside, and had tested the truth of the 
report. The Tantalus had not arrived, might not arrive for 
days, and the Bluebell had spread her wings and sailed soon 
after high water. He could do nothing as far as Susie was con- 
cerned. Had he been a man to whom money is no object, 
he might have chartered a tug and followed; but Tony Crow’s 
resources were strictly meagre. He paid for his information 
in glasses of “four ale” and came down the sea-wall until he 
arrived at the place of Dunscombe’s murder. Here he halted 
and commenced again to search for that trifle which hitherto 
he had not been able to find. Yet this was the third occasion 
on which he had been, as he termed it, “fossikin’ abaht t’deetch 
seekin’ eevidence.” 

He stood in the neighbourhood of the scene of Dunscombe’s 
murder. The police had searched it. Many unofficial persons 
had searched it, scrambling about the banks, peering into the 
rushes, but nothing had transpired. Tony’s heresy as to the 
value of police investigation was exemplified by his persistence. 
They were all “silly, feckless loons,” in his estimation. The 
fact that they had issued a warrant for Elliott’s arrest was 
sufficient proof, in his mind, of their arrant stupidity. He be- 
lieved in none of their theories, because they were all bound 
in one terse sentence — Jack Elliott. 

Tony knew that Elliott had not done this thing. He knew 
it vaguely, as a dog knows it will get some meat if it sits and 
begs; but the faculty of reason was as conspicuously absent in 
the one case as in the other. Hence he had been “fossiking,” 
and, so far, had gained no information. 


THE SEA-WALL 


24 1 


He groaned sorrowfully as he climbed again to the sea-wall. 
His fruitless attempt to rescue Susie stung him. He knew the 
old man so well; knew that he trusted him, and would have 
walked into any species of danger to do the girl a service; 
for he, in common with many others, was aware of the trouble 
that had crept into Sutcliffe’s life since his second marriage, 
and of the old man’s unutterable folly in borrowing of Saunder- 
son to meet his wife’s extravagance. He knew, too, of Saunder- 
son’s fierce love for the girl, and how it had run unchecked by 
the fact that she was affianced to Elliott. 

He recollected his meeting with Susie that night in the park; 
how queerly she had spoken; how unlike she had been to the 
blithe lassie he had known for years. He cursed his glib tongue 
for having given her information of Saunderson’s whereabouts. 
He might have known that trouble would come of it; for 
he knew Saunderson as few others in that circle knew him. 

He stood a moment resting on a curious implement, a self- 
wrought tool which he had used in his fruitless “fossiking,” 
when a short laugh brought him suddenly to atterition. A tall, 
dark-eyed woman, with a mop of frowsy, straw-coloured hair, 
stood on the river side of the embankment, watching him. She 
climbed the pathway and spoke with a quiet air of conscious 
superiority. 

• ‘You are Mr. Crow, the Abbeyville blacksmith,” she said. 
“The people call you Tony Crow — and they say you are a man 
who wouldn’t hurt a fly.” 

The blacksmith stared; a twinkle came into his small eyes 
as he took in the situation. “Ah’m aal ye say. Missis — except 
thot ah don’t knaw abaht t’flee if ah coomed under ma hammer.” 

“And in that case, Mr. Crow?” she laughed. 

“In thot case — ah doot it would be smashet.” 

Again the woman laughed; then looking him straight in the 


242 


THE ISSUE 


face she said: “You are certainly explicit, for a man. Cha! 
why do I waste time. You know the Bluebell — you know 
Saunderson: perhaps you can tell me why the Bluebell is 
anchored down yonder, by the fort.’* 

Tony stared down the Reach, following the woman’s finger. 
He looked up again; she no longer smiled, but watched him 
with a settled frown. He stammered: “T’ Bluebell anchored? 
Nay, it seems t’me, ye knaw more abaht it than ah do masen. 
Maybe ye knaw Susie, an’ t’owd man Sutcliffe; maybe if ye telled 
me a sma’ bit abaht your’sen, ah could be more expleecit.” 

She faced him with an imploring gesture: “If you will answer 
my question, and aid me in discovering what I have so long 
missed, I will tell you who I am.” 

“Nay, fair play’s a jewel. Ah’m clean oot o’ t’runnin’. 
Maybe ye’ll be askin’ me why Susie took oop wi’ yon sluckit 
skeeper — why Tammas Surritch came hame wi a bashet eye — 
why ” 

The woman turned on him with a sharp question: “What 
skipper ? ” 

“Skeeper o’ Bluebell — Saundisson ” 

‘ ‘ Saunderson ! Susie ! What do you mean ? ” 

Tony relapsed into silence. He was flabbergasted; his wits 
were a chaos. “What for should ah tell ye?” he ques- 
tioned. 

“Oh! you will, you will.” The woman broke into a wail of 
anguish; she held out her hands begging him to speak. “See! 
it is most important that I should know. Cha! it is important 
also for this— this girl— Susie, as you call her. See! I have 
traced him here. Months ago I should have found him, but a 
man I met told me he had gone north, to the Tyne, and I have 
wasted time and money trying to find him there. Now I come 
back and I hear he has sailed. I have found out several things 


THE SEA-WALL 


243 


about him; but he has sailed — and I must wait. But he shall 
not go free; he is mine — he shall not go free! ” 

Tony was aghast at the sudden transition; he waited in some 
trepidation, then broke out; “Steady, Missis! There’s so’thin’ 
adreeft — ah can see thot plain. Maybe if ye would begin at the 
beginnin’ an’ go on, loike, we would come at summat.” 

“Begin at the beginning! Man, that would take a week. 
Tell me, what is this Susie — to Saunderson?” 

“His wife since noon.” 

“His wife. I am his wife.” 

Tony leaped forward hoarse with excitement. “Well ah’m 
dommed,” he shouted. “Then it’s beegamy.” 

Mrs. Saunderson laughed viciously. “May she have as 
nice a time as I had,” she returned. 

“ Nay Missis, thot’s not pretty talk. Ye don’t mean it. It’s 
jealously thot makes ye talk like thot. T’lass is as pure as the 
angels — pure as the hooly angels, get t’next fra where yew 
will.” 

But she took no heed; she was moving to and fro stamping 
her feet and gesticulating as the words fell from her lips. 

“Why should I interfere? Have I not suffered enough? 
Have I not borne enough ? Did he treat me kindly ? Did his 
love last ? His love ! God forgive me for so degrading the word. 
Love? Passion, blind, overwhelming, unreasoning passion. 
He tired of me quickly — be sure of that. And now he has won 
this Susie of yours, you would have me interfere. I can’t 
interfere. I won’t — why should I ? I won’t, and why should 
I?” 

“Steady, Missis ! ” Tony cried again. “ Think it oot. Thot’s 
no your ’sen thot’s talkin’ — thot’s ” 

She interrupted with a movement of disdain. “ Man, don’t 
I know him? Am I not his wife? Psha! seven years ago I 


244 


THE ISSUE 


knew him. I was Lilly Barker then, and I married him down 
in dear old Plymouth. He deserted me when my child was 
born. I have not seen him since ; but recently my father died and 
left me some money, so I made up my mind to find him . . 

for he is my husband, you see, and I thought to get him to take 
me back — for I loved him. Money sometimes helps as you 
know; but now I find him with another love — a chit of a girl. 
Well, let him tire of her as he tired of me; let him break her 
freshness, as he has broken mine — then, perhaps he may be less 
unwilling to come back to the wife he deserted — and to her 
money.” 

Tony held up his hand begging for consideration: “Steady, 
Missis,” he cried; “ye’ve got it straight — ah can see thot. But, 
suppose t’lass don’t love your husband. Suppose she’s stole 
fra her man, an’ wed against her will. Suppose aal this, 
Missis — an’ than, dom ma een, ye’ll step in wi Tony an’ save 
her?” 

“Explain — explain. I don’t understand,” she cried. 

“Eexplain! Eigh! thot’s easy. We’re coomin’ to it — noo 
we’re beginnin’ t’fetch Saundisson’s sluckit neck under ma 
hammer. See — Susie was t’have been wed three months agone ; 
but Saundisson draws his line across t’bargain. Dunscombe 
was murdered — ye may have heard oo’t. Ye did — gude; then 
Susie’s man is blamet — an’ he runs like a foo’, an’ Saundisson 
puts t’bums in Sutcliffe’s house at Abbeyville. Sutcliffe is 
t’lass’s father. T’save him Susie promised t’wed Saundisson. 
She was marriet t’day an’ t’papers t’owd man gave when he 
borrowit o’ Saundisson were handed to puir Tammas. Thot’s 
how it stands — an’ ah’m goin’ dahn t’fetch t’lass back hame fra 
VBluehdiy 

A great deal of this speech was incomprehensible to the 
woman in her excited condition. Jealousy, too, struggled 


THE SEA-WALL 


^45 

hard for supremacy. She faced him with thin, unbelieving 
lips: “ Will you swear she never, never angled for him or made 
love to him ? Will you swear it ? ” 

“Nay, Missis. It’s no case for swearin’. There’s Tony 
Crow’s word — take it or leave it.” 

“I prefer not to believe it; it is impossible.” 

“Nay, there’s nowt impossible.” 

“Then I cannot help you, if you like that better,” she returned 
with an ugly laugh. 

Tony moved toward the path, preparing to go: “Noo, 
we’re coomin’ at it — noo there’s no banes aboot it; an’, if ye’ve 
no objection. Missis, ah’ll just say how yon deceession o’ yours 
looks t’me. It’s puir selfishness, an’ obstreperousness; nothin’ 
else, foreby a smaa’ touch o’ jealousy. An’ ah say thot the 
wumman thot will stand by, an’ see a lass taen t’her death, is na 
wumman but a child — an’ she should be treated loike a child 
wi’a simple spankin’— an’ thot. Missis, is more Yerkshire.” 

He turned on his heel without further ado and walked swiftly 
down the sea-wall to the Garter Pier. Here he paused a 
moment and glanced round as though he still expected the 
woman to be following. But she remained where he had left 
her; silhouetted boldly against the skyline. Tony concluded 
that she intended to abide by her decision, and having hailed a 
boat and bargained for speed, he clambered into the stern sheets 
and started at once for the BluehelL 


CHAPTER V 


The Sluckit-Sasser 

F rom the Garter Pier to the fort off which the Bluebell 
lay is a distance of three miles; and, viewed in the 
light of Tony’s horror of the water, it was no easy 
task he had set himself. His education at the forge of a York- 
shire smithy had not given him the faculty of balance necessary 
for jumping about in rowing boats. In this matter his feelings 
were something akin to those of “puir Tammas,” they differed 
only in the form. Surridge was concerned chiefly with the 
feckless blundering which resulted so often in collisions; Tony, 
with the instability of everything afloat, and the danger he saw 
of his own great height tempting a boat to turn turtle. 

Hence he sat crouched low in the shallow wherry and kept a 
nervous and constant watch from beneath his drawn-down cap 
on every babbling wavelet crossing their track. Tony Crow 
seated in a boat in mortal fear of being capsized, and Tony 
Crow holding a kicking horse to be shod outside the smithy 
doors, were distinctly separate individuals. 

But despite his fears, they flashed rapidly down the tide and 
^‘in a quarter less than no time,” as he observed afterwards, 
they were close to the anchored vessel. She lay head to wind, 
tugging restlessly at her cable, her black sails whanging in the 
breeze. 

Arrived alongside, Tony grasped one of the shrouds and 
clambered to his feet. His head was level with the rail. He 
appeared curiously uncertain how to proceed. Then the sight 

246 


THE SLUCKIT-SASSER 


247 


of Susie hurrying to meet him, brought him up the side with the 
quaint action of a big retriever, and as though he feared his 
weight would bring the schooner over. He landed on deck and 
wiped the perspiration from his forehead. 

“Socks!” he exclaimed; “ah would not be a sailor-man, not 
for dumps. Ah loike summat undah ma feet thot will-na go 
ricketty-rock — for aal the world loike a babby’s cradle. Where’s 
Saundisson ? ” 

Susie stood before him in obvious wonderment. She cried 
out nervously; “What is it, Tony? Why are you here ? What 
do you want with my husband ? ” 

Tony gasped for breath. “He’s no your husband, lass,” 
he blurted, and again mopped his face. 

The girl stared. She remained a moment without speech, 
then, tapping with her foot on the deck: “What do you mean? 
tell me what you mean?” 

“What do’t sound loike, lass?” 

“Tony, Tony!” she reiterated sharply; “tell me what you 
mean, I — I have a right to know.” Again the foot stamping 
angrily on the planks. 

The blacksmith watched her with a miserable attempt at 
jocularity. “Eigh! t’ cur’us ways o’ wimmen,” he cried. 
“T’hear ’em talk, wi’ tears in their een — tears at their heart — 
an’ a life o’ tears before them — t’hear ’em struggle in t’meshes, 
strivin’ t’defend their man, when there’s just no defence at aal 
Eight it’s just peetifu’ — peetifu’.” The girl writhed under the 
sting of his words and he went on more slowly: “Ah coomed 
down here in yon sluckit-sasser [boat] t’ tell ye what ah’ve 
heard — an’ t’see your man. Ah telled ye, Susie, plain Yerk- 
shire, Saundisson is no your husband. An’ ah thowt maybe 
ye’d got a bit love left fer yon vanishet chap o’ yours — Jack, 
Susie. Dom ma een! There! Shot” 


248 


THE ISSUE 


Tony Crow started across the deck in great perturbation; 
for Susie was weeping bitterly, and Tony had that in his heart 
which comes to strong men in place of tears, and wanted space 
wherein to vent it. 

The sound of approaching oars struck them as they stood 
thus. Susie dried her eyes and crossed to where the black- 
smith leaned against the fiferail. hate Saunderson,” she 
cried under her breath; and again, “I hate him.” 

“Socks! Thot’s ma Susie, noo.” 

“And I love Jack. Oh, Tony, can’t you understand?” 

“Ah can — ah can,” He caught her hand, wringing it in 
triumph. “Leave it t’ me. Yon’s Saundisson cornin’ — do 
as ah bid you when t’time comes.” 

Silence ensued. In the silence a boat drew alongside and 
Saunderson’s head appeared above the gangway. He saw the 
blacksmith instantly and his face grew livid. His arm was in 
splints, hanging from his neck in a sling. He crossed the deck 
to meet them, growling out: “You’d best get ashore. I’ve 
lost enough time wiv one sort o’ foolin’ an’ another — you’d 
best leave.” 

“Ah’ve no detained ye, Cap’n,” Tony returned with studied 
politeness. “Ah want just a sma’ bit talk wiv ye, then ah’m 
done.” 

Saunderson halted beside them, striving ineffectually to 
read their faces. 

“Well,” he suggested, “get a long wiv it. I’m losing the 
tide.” 

“Ye’ve marriet Susie the morn?” 

“I have — an’ got my arm broke since.” 

“ Thot’s bad. Maybe ye telled her you were wed before ? ” 

Saunderson floundered with words. He plucked at his 
neckerchief with a hand that twitched, facing them, staring into 


THE SLUCKIT-SASSER 


249 


their eyes, frowning — miserably incompetent as an actor. He 
shouted fiercely: ‘‘What in flames d’ye mean? What is it to 
you if a man was married before — if his wife’s dead ? My wife 
is dead: what more do you want?” 

“Your wife is no dead, Jeames Saundisson.” 

“You lie. I say you lie!” he reiterated. 

“ Steady, Cap’n. Fer a corpse ah conseeder her weel preser- 
vet.” 

He interjected again: “Lie! lie!” and stood to listen. 

“Tall, Cap’n. Fluffity hair, summat loike straw in colour.” 

Saunderson struggled vainly with speech; he stammered, 
but Tony Crow, masterful and very strong in the possession of 
facts, continued his indictment. 

“Wumman o’ abaht thirty — more or less; queer bluey een, 
wi a bit sparkle in ’em when she’s vexet.” 

Still no reply and Saunderson gazing dully at Susie. 

“Met her up by t’deetch, wheer Dunscombe coom oot wrong 
end first. Sittin’ in t’grass, watchin’ VBluebell — lookin’ fer 
her husband — thot’s wheer she was, Cap’n.” 

The skipper made an attempt at bluster; but he could only 
repeat in a thin voice: “I say it’s a lie — a lie from one end to 
another.” Then with sudden violence: “Lumme! you 
shouldn’t stand there sayin’ what you are, if I was master of my 
second arm. Get ashore. I’m losin’ the tide.” 

Tony Crow approached speaking with grim emphasis: 
“Ah’m game to meet ye, Cap’n, when t’other arm is in its 
place ; but, whiles you’re in t’ shop,* tongues will have t’ do dooty 
instead. Yon wumman’s your wife — marriet in Plymouth 
seven year agone. Name o’ Leely — Leely Barker.” 

Saunderson was white with passion, but he controlled himself 
to shout: “Goon — goon.” 


^Engineering term for under repairs. 


250 


THE ISSUE 


“Deserted six year, Cap’n; treated cruel; deserted wi a baby 
in arms an* never seen since. Dom ma een! is aa t’yarn a 
lee?** 

Saunderson moved his lips to speak; he passed his hand 
across his face and found it wet. He stared into his palm and 
dried it on his coat. Something must be said; something 
efficacious; something pertinent. A cry fell on his ears and he 
looked up. Susie had given utterance to that cry. He moved 
towards her holding forth his hand; intent on exculpation; 
intent on gaining her sympathy — yet he only said: “I thought 
she was dead; they told me she was dead. I never loved her. 
Gawd help mel I never loved her. Do you believe me? 
Do you believe me?** 

“I don’t know what to believe. Oh! it is horrible.** 

Again a pause while Saunderson gazed with intense longing 
into her face and remembered that if this was true, the end of 
all things was at hand; that Susie could be his no more. 

“Lass!** he cried piteously, “I don’t believe it. I have the 
proof of her death. I know she died. Gawd love you, will 
you not take my word against — this — this ** 

He stumbled in his speech and the oath [died in his throat, 
at the sight of her mute appeal. 

“Can you prove it?” she cried aloud. She looked directly 
into his face, waiting in tearless misery for his answer. But 
the answer halted and Tony Crow broke in without re- 
morse. 

“ Coom,” he cried. “Yonder she stands t’speak for hersen.” 

Saunderson put him aside with a motion of contempt. 
“Pish! Seven years ago I married Lilly Barker. But she 
died — as I’m a livin’ soul, she died.” 

“Desertet, Cap’n — wi* a babby in arms.” 

“She’s dead!” he shouted in anger. 


THE SLUCKIT-SASSER 


251 


“A matter o’ deescription, Cap’n; but it don’t get awa wi the 
livin’ wumman on t’ bank.” 

Saunderson moved across to the scuttle and covered his face 
with one hand. He was weak with pain and dazed by the rapid 
course of the morning’s events. He had won. Some hours 
ago, he had won. Susie was his wife. She was ready at last 
to stay with him. He had won — and now, in the hour of his 
triumph, that other woman whom he had never loved; that 
woman, draggle-tailed and with miserable eyes, whom he be- 
lieved to be dead, had returned, and he was No, it could 

not be — it could not be; yet the news bore the impress of truth. 
Truth! Chksl it was — what was it? He looked up and 
caught Susie’s tearful glance. The sight fevered him and 
again he sprang to his feet hoping against hope; battling with 
dread; praying for respite. 

‘‘Susie! Susie! you’ll not take sides against me. You’ll stay 
by me now an’ let them prove their words — you’ll not make a 
fool of me before my hands. Gawd love you, I’ve treated you 
fair an’ square. I know nothin’ of what this man says. I did 
all I promised in that business of the house. I did it because 
you asked me; because I love you; because I love no other. 

“Susie!” he went on passionately, his face a dull crimson 
and the pulse in his forehead throbbing and articulate, “I 
never loved another. I love you; you are my wife. Trust me 
— didn’t know I had another — I swear it.” 

She turned to him with a quick movement. “Will you come 
ashore and see — this woman?” 

“I can’t. I daren’t. If the guv’nor happens to hear of all 
this delay, I’m done.” 

“Then I must,” Susie returned. 

“Don’t — Gawd love you, don’t make a fool of me. Trust 
me till we come back. Trust me till then.” 


252 


THE ISSUE 


He looked straight into her eyes, his voice ringing with pathos. 
He moved forward begging for consideration and the influence 
he exercised w’ould have done its work had not Tony interfered 
with a sharp reminder of the position. 

“Don’t you be a foo’, Lass!” he threw out. “Get ashore 
an’ let t’beaks settle it.” 

“ Yes,” she replied. “That will be the best way.” 

They moved to the gangway. Saunderson followed plucking 
at the neckerchief he wore, shouting with annoyance, passionate, 
humiliated, and threatening reprisals on Tony Crow. 

“I’ll be even wiv you! S’elp me! I’ll be even wiv you. 

Interfering — playing the goat wiv lies an’ ” he broke off, 

and the sentence died in a spatter of oaths as he watched them 
climbing the rail. 

The blacksmith made haste with his charge and gingerly 
following her, took a seat in the boat. He spoke with an 
assurance he did not feel as he remarked: “Noo, Susie, ye’re 
weel out o’ thot mess. So set firm an’ don’t get skearet; fer 
if there’s one thing ah’m in doot abaht, it’s puddlin’ arahnd 
in a sluckit-sasser o’ this descreeption. Ah ca’ it fair temptin’ 
o’ Proveedence — nowt else.” 

And on the schooner’s deck Saunderson moved with twitching 
muscles, going toward his cabin. “It’s the curse,” he an- 
nounced grimly quiet. ‘ ‘ Gawd give me time. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER VI 


Tooth and Nail 


HE river swirled beneath leaden skies. Clouds charged 



A to the zenith, leaping from the horizon in dusky shapes, 
grim, fantastic, blurring the landscape. They loomed 
grandly over a world inexplicably pestered by blinding squalls 
of hail and sleet. The wind moaned with the voice of a com- 
plaining legion. It swept over the shivering Essex marshes 
shouting and vengeful; telling, in gusts, in sudden shrieks, and 
whirling onslaughts, of its triumph farther east, farther north, 
where no coast line sheltered sluggard craft and the gulls could 
skim no longer. It struck the water, and the water smoked; 
the leaping waves were shorn of their crests; a seething spume 
ran blindly downward, hissing, twisting, clipped of its might. 

The river swirled onward. It rolled seaward, carrying on 
its bosom the grime and filth of a thousand gutters. Like a 
turgid torrent, swollen, dim, and very vast, it moved toward 
the portals of the great estuary; swollen, lashed, and hugely 
masterful it passed down the dim Reaches and met its mother — • 
crying as a child cries, with pain; moaning as an infant moans, 
searching for rest. 

The afternoon waned. 

Here and away the breath of far-off steamers hung in dusky 
blotches about the horizon; here, under the low hills sheltering 
Mucking Bight, a group of small fry lay with folded wings and 
bowed rigging, watching the turmoil; far down Sea Reach a few 
black-sailed barges leaped the combing seas; for the rest the 


253 


254 


THE ISSUE 


waters were bare of sails. Night approached — a wild night, 
full of presage; crammed with tokens a child might read. 
A fiery gleam escaped the charging clouds. The river took up 
the challenge and ran in strips of blood. A light appeared smirk- 
ing solemnly amidst the gloom; about it clamoured the gulls; 
about it, too, rose a column of spray, white, scintillating, tinged 
with rainbow hues. It marked the edge of the sands, bobbing 
gravely. Beyond was chaos. 

The Bluebell moved in mid-channel. She heeled with her 
lee rail awash. One man was shadowed amidst the sprays 
forward— a dim and fantastic figure clad in gleaming oilskins; 
another lounged at the wheel. 

A ray of light, circular and very intense, marked the binnacle. 
The glare fell on Saunderson, lighting his face, lighting the 
moving spokes, tinging the folds of his coat with touches of 
fire. Beyond, the shadows grew blacker, more intense, and 
the track, so luminous and angry with movement under the 
stem, trailed off into nothingness. 

Saunderson was at the schooner’s wheel, steering with one 
hand ; the other was hidden beneath the folds of his oilskin. He 
had stood thus, almost without relief, since they got under way 
off the Forts. Once or twice he had shouted for the mate and 
gone below to renew his vigour with the aid of rum. And so, 
by the time the Bluebell had reached the Chapman, he had 
worked himself into that reckless, devil-may-care attitude, 
which is so productive of disaster on the crowded river and 
ocean highways. 

He did not see the matter from this point of view. He saw 
himself, rather, in the light of a man cheated of his rights; 
deluded, humiliated, maligned. His pride had suffered the 
severest conceivable blow. He had told the mate that he was 
about to be married and that his wife would accompany him. 


TOOTH AND NAIL 


255 


The mate had met him, and he, with those other grinning 
chysers, had witnessed Tom Surridge’s attempt; had seen the 
fight and subsequent trouble, and had held aloof. 

He cursed them all, Tom Surridge, the mate, the crew, and 
Tony Crow; but most of all he cursed his wife, that ancient 
flame of his, whom he had only won by marriage, years ago in 
Plymouth. He saw himself, in his mind’s eye, again at the 
Western seaport, and, following the shadows of the past, pic- 
tured the hilly country where he had wooed her. Now he was 
in the woods behind old Barker’s farm ; now on the Hoe listening 
to the band and praying for quiet. How difficult it had been to 
win her; what obstacles he had surmounted. Old Barker I 
Chks! he was a fool. Suspicions — desires for another match — 
a man of the sea. They had forced his hand. He had married 
her without love — married her of sheer pique. Then came 
those months of degradation, so he termed it now, a growing 
hatred of the tie he had formed, and, his charter accomplished, 
the opportunity to sneak away and find distraction in other 
fields. 

Distance brought oblivion. Lilly Barker died. He swore 
it. Holding grimly to the wheel and staring at the elusive 
Lubber’s Point,* he swore it. Thereafter all remembrance of 
her vanished. He had found other pleasures, newer loves, less 
persistent tongues; but this time, and the next, and the next, 
all through a bewildering chaos of faces he had carefully 
avoided the binding ties of marriage. 

All these had passed as the swallows pass with the approach 
of winter. All these had sunk as a stricken ship sinks beside 
the rocks which have ground out her soul. All these had 
vanished, now in misery, now in suffering, now to form other 

*A line set vertically within the compass to mark the position of the ship’s 
head. 


256 


THE ISSUE 


friendships, and he had swum triumphant down the stream 
of passion until, once more, he came to his old surroundings; 
the county of his birth, and fought his way to the position of 
skipper under Dunscombe. 

Here fate had smiled on his growing madness for the fair 
daughter of poor George Sutcliffe; here fate had dallied with him 
pausing, beckoning, urging, until he was completely immeshed 
in the new labyrinth; and here, after succumbing a second time 
to marriage, while the cup of joy was at his lips, the blow had 
fallen. Someone had said that his wife, the woman with the 
haggard eyes, who pined always for a return of the endear- 
ments of her early wedded life, had come back — that she 
searched for him. 

He stood at the wheel cursing grimly. No other man would 
have attempted the task he had set himself; few would have 
been physically competent. But Saunderson was inured to 
hardship from infancy; his muscles were like iron; his nerve, 
in all except one phase, adamant. 

A squall which had been growing to windward now burst 
on the hard-pressed schooner. The skipper luffed with the 
precision of an old-time yachtsman, and brought her to the wind, 
her canvas roaring. Far up in the night blocks clanged, booms 
leaped, shackles jingled. A deluge smote them; rain, hail, 
spray, stung the slanting decks. But Saunderson took these 
matters as part of the general turmoil in which he had become 
involved; and as though Nature strove to sympathise and con- 
dole with him on his sombre outlook. He glanced up and 
shouted unmoved: 

‘‘Down tawps’l! Clew up and make it fast.” 

The loosened sail flapped with the roar of thunder. Two 
hands, flattened and fantastic, stole from the sheerpole, climbed 
the rigging, footed the ropes, smothered it, and crept back. 


TOOTH AND NAIL 


257 


The squall hummed far in the solitude of the Kentish hills, up- 
rooting trees, removing loose tiles, bothering the cattle; but 
Saunderson had returned to the pictures of his past, a phantom 
procession moving slowly in his brain. 

He was standing on the Bluebell’s deck listening to Micky 
Doolan’s meandering history of the Gat. A calm reigned. 
He saw it, marked the oily heave of the swell, heard the monot- 
onous slatting of the sails; watched that cloud bank rising over 
the Maplins tinged with flickering points of light which flashed 
and died as loose powder flashes and dies, noiseless, in- 
scrutable. 

Now he fought with Elliott on the Stormy Petrel’s deck. He 
was winning. He would have won; but there came a lurch 
coincident with a blow and he tripped — tripped, and Elliott 
won instead. Paltry! Unthinkable. The result of that 
asinine collision of his for which he suffered. 

What did Elliott want down there anyway ? Was the Gat a 
place wherein a man should go fooling about — looking for 
derelicts? No; he swore it. His voice rose to a shout. Any 

man would keep out of the Gat who knew it’s cursed 

Aye, but Elliott did not know. And now he was in the shadow 
of it — down the cellar, where all vanished who saw what he 
had seen. Gawd! He faced the blackness, drinking in the 
moisture which trickled down his cheeks. He faced it whimp- 
ering, acknowledging that he was hemmed. 

Again he leaned over the wheel searching the binnacle. The 
Lubber’s Point swam ridiculously buoyant. It evaded his custody. 
It refused to obey his desires. Chks! the sails guided him, 
towering in the darkness, round and intensely sombre. He 
asked himself why had these incidents happened; to what end 
had he given out that Elliott was down the cellar; to what end 
had he married Susie, committed bigamy, and brought himself 


258 


THE ISSUE 


within reach of the law? The answer echoed remorselessly in 
his brain. 

A silent cabin; a stifling and intense weight of fear; the loneli- 
ness of a man who acknowledged a force he could not compre- 
hend. A vision of the courts and a weeping, middle-aged 
woman forever pressing at his heels. This, when he had 
counted on Susie’s love and aid; this, when he had so generously 
foregone Sutcliffe’s debt; this, and the triumph of Tony Crow 
and all the clacking busybodies. 

A shout echoed above the turmoil, snapping his thoughts like 
a slammed door: 

*‘See that steamer. Skipper?” 

Saunderson had seen nothing for some time beyond the mobey 
puppet procession which thronged his brain. He left the 
wheel and gazed under the foot of the mainsail. 

A flashing vista of lights, tier upon tier, pierced the darkness, 
crossing obliquely the schooner’s track. Saunderson returned 
to the helm and swiftly put it down. He hailed the watch with a 
shout, masterful, supremely alert: “Ready about!” And 
again: “Is our light burning?” 

A voice swept up with the spray: “Na-a — gone out. Boy’s 
trimmin’ it.” 

“Then blow your horn!” 

A few wheezy gasps struggled into being. A snort, as of 
anger, broke from the steamer’s whistle. Then, as the Blue- 
hell turned on her heel, while the canvas roared in the gale, 
the lights grew swiftly blinding. High above the paltry 
schooner they pierced the blackness, staring with an eye of 
supreme disdain; overlooking her, pointing her disorder. 
Blocks stood out, sails appeared where no sails had been. They 
fluttered helplessly; ropes dangled; the wet decks shone under 
a shower of silver spray. A voice shouted: “Schooner ahoy! 


TOOTH AND NAIL 


259 


What vessel is that? Why the devil are you without lights?’’ 
Other remarks, less complimentary, less pertinent, followed — 
then a touch, a lurch — sliding, swift, almost an escape, and the 
steamer swept by. 

Saunderson smiled grimly. His mood matched his environ- 
ment. Peril? Chks! He seized the binnacle lamp and 
flashed it on the bow and growled her name: “The Lon- 
doner — goin’ like a torpedo boat in the thick of the traffic. 
Lumme! I’d slow you down if I had my way.” 

The steamer’s engines were churning the water into a mill- 
race. She moved astern at full speed. Her crew were pre- 
paring to lower a boat. Again a voice rose: “Any damage 
skipper ? Want assistance ? ” 

Saunderson, smarting under fancied injuries, blind to his own 
iniquities, shouted truculently into the void. “Na! To hell 
wiv you an’ your assistance! Why can’t you keep your eyes 
skinned? I want no help from the likes ” 

The schooner filled on the starboard tack. She heeled over, 
careening toward the black Essex shores and hissed out of 
sight. Saunderson’s eye fell on the crew huddled in group to 
leeward. He roared at the mate, bidding him take the wheel 
while he and others examined the damaged gear. 

“Keep your luff!” he ordered. “Don’t let her fall rampin’ 
full — till I see how the strings will stand.” 

He moved away, fumbling with one hand, staring at the splin- 
tered rail, manoeuvring his men with the judgment of one born 
to command. With the aid of a few knots and some shortened 
spans the rigging was made trustworthy. The damage had 
been trifling. Indeed in the reflected light of his misery, it 
appeared a paltry business; a thing too inconsiderable to require 
mention. He returned to the wheel, giving his orders with a 
snap. 


26 o 


THE ISSUE 


Ready about. Down jib while we’re in the wind! Snug 
your main tawps’l on the cap. Make it fast.” He put the 
helm over and shouted. “Hard a-lee!” then stood watching 
the flare on Chapman Head as the Bluebell bowed the seas 
swinging towards the open Channel. 

The canvas roared. Booms whanged, sheets jerked. The 
men’s voices, whimpering in a long drawn minor howl, sounded 
amidst the clatter — then, after a space, silence; the comparative 
silence of a gale swishing high overhead; booming in the 
rounded canvas, twanging on the tight wire shrouds. The 
silence of a weather shore and Saunderson again occupied with 
his puppets. 

His thoughts rested on Susie. A few nights ago he had held 
her in his arms and she had promised to be his wife; had 
promised to help him in that struggle for fame which was 
with him a passion only second in intensity to that he held for 
her. Now Susie was lost to him; another woman had usurped 
her place. Could that other woman aid him? No she could 
not aid him — he had no love for her. He recognised that her 
manner annoyed him — that she fawned upon him like a sick 
snake. If she had returned — if she had returned, he must 
endure it. Must. He was very certain on that point. He 
reiterated the fact with a semi-drunken gravity that matched 
to mimicry the profound and implacable gloom of the night. 
Must. He looked into the compass and said aloud, 
“Must!” then halted as other questions clamoured. Could 
he climb with her at his elbow ? Could he reach that dizzy Eldor- 
rado which appealed so wonderfully to his imagination, with 
her? Could he? And what about the law courts? If she 
had returned it was bigamy ? If ? He knew she had returned.' 
The likeness sketched by Tony Crow stuck in his mental vis- 
ion: “Tall, fluffity yellow hair, blue een wi’ a bit sparkle when 


TOOTH AND NAIL 


261 


she’s vexit^^; he knew that description. Knew it. Must abide 
by the consequences. Must — must. The knowledge was 
purgatory. 

His thoughts whirled like the spindriff slashing over the 
weather rail to sting his face; they whirled, criss-cross, far 
out of reach, leading him to heights he could not scale; to 
depths he dared not plumb. He swayed at his post. His head 
swam. His arm gave him pain. Chks! a pull at the rum 
bottle put him on his feet. He steered with one hand. 

Far ahead, glimmering faintly amidst the shadows brooding 
over Southend, a signal flashed; then a train of sparks followed 
by a shower of coloured lights fell in symmetrical curves 
through the night. But Saunderson did not see it. 

There are moment’s in all men’s lives when every detail is 
worthy of consideration; when, if the grip is relaxed in the 
smallest degree, by the most insignificant trifle, that trifle is 
sufficient to spell ruin. Saunderson had arrived at this mo- 
ment. By slow and tortuous stages he had arrived at that 
point when every outside circumstance required his watchful 
care — if he would win. But, shrewd as he was, he had not the 
wit to know it. He could see his hand; he could see the bin- 
nacle, he could see the deck at his feet; but beyond was nothing- 
ness, vacuity, shadowed by a fate which made havoc of men’s 
lives and against which it was useless to fight. 

Had he seen that signal he would have known that a heavy 
and inadequately manned collier, whose owners are a byword 
for cheese-paring, was blundering up river, and he would have 
kept himself ready for eventualities. But the man had lost 
all sense of danger. The rum bottle was an illusive fillip; 
in its train were shadows more sombre, more stupifying than 
those he battled. He stood at the wheel steering carelessly, 
his thoughts centred on himself, his plans, and Susie. 


262 


THE ISSUE 


The wind moaned. Another squall was flaring to the 
zenith. The clouds raced past a bleary vacancy where the 
young moon sank like a dim sickle, low in the west. Sometimes 
the sails fluttered and roared; sometimes they bellied full and 
round with only the hum of tension and the pattering fall of 
reef-points to mark the steady drone of the gale. 

The mate and two of the watch consulted. Under other 
circumstances they would have been in bed; but Saunderson’s 
navigation effectually kept sleep from their eyes. The schooner 
raced to windward — a blow on the bluff of the bow sounded 
and the spray drenched them where they stood. 

‘‘She’ll be aback,” said the mate. 

“He’s takin’ the hull bloomin’ river fer his bloomin’ course,” 
the third hand asserted in a dreary monotone. 

The mate took the bit in his teeth. The crew straggled 
aft in a body to expostulate. A man before the mast exper- 
iences sufficient hardship, sufficient discomfort, sufficient of all 
unpalatable things on God’s earth at the hands of niggard 
owners — for that is his birthright; it is written on his articles. 
But this was rank and premeditated suicide. Saunderson was 
drunk of two sources — excitement and rum. The men knew 
only of the rum. 

Hence, when, after an interminable period occupied in a 
persistent chase of the elusive Lubber’s Point, Saunderson 
became aware that the schooner was yawing horribly, he put 
the helm down, discarded once more the compass, and stood 
gravely regarding the sleeping canvas — canvas that hummed 
with the roll of drums. Saunderson’s eyes fell. They took 
in the group of the three, standing in the shadow of the main- 
sail. 

“What d’ye want?” he yelled with sudden passion. “Get 
for’ud! Get on the lookout!” 


TOOTH AND NAIL 


263 


The men hung fire. Indecision had them by the shoulders 
and Saunderson swore with consummate fluency, until his eyes 
fell on the racing compass card and the wheel buzzed. Some- 
thing smote the schooner broad on the bow. A sea — green, 
tempestuous — spitting at the mainsail. Swis-s-sh! It passed 
to leeward. The squall broke over them. 

The Bluebell lay down to it, burying her lee rail to the hatch 
coamings. She leaped at the angry waters as a steeplechaser 
leaps at the hedges and ditches spanning his path. A sheet 
parted. The chain tied a dozen knots about the sheave-hole and 
a sail whanged, somewhere — high in the blackness. Saunder- 
son struggled with the wheel, easing it down with knee and one 
hand, gripping the spokes; lufl&ng — hugely determined. 

“ Let go jib an’ stay-s’l halliards. Let go — snug ’em down! ” 
He shouted the order unabashed at the fury of the buzzing 
wind. He added: “Down wiv ’em, my sons. Lively’s the 
word.” 

The mate faced him, truculent of aspect. “No man can 
cross that deck,” he announced. “They should a bin in 
afore.” 

“For’ud an’ get ’em in now.” 

“For’iid yerself.” 

The skipper watched with ponderous gravity. “There’s 
only one word that puts that into English,” he said; “it’s 
‘mutiny.’ ” 

“You’re drunk. Skipper.” 

The schooner heeled again. In the argument Saunderson 
had forgotten the wheel. The sails were full; bellying black 
against the sky. The mainsail stooping thirstily caught the 
water as with a scoop and poured it forth like a cascade. Skip- 
per and mate both gripped the wheel. They moved the spokes 
tenderly, as a surgeon handles a hurt, edging down the helm. 


264 


THE ISSUE 


They strove to bring the vessel gently to the wind, but before 
the compass had swung three points an ominous crack sounded 
high aloft — the foretopmast trembled, lurched, leaned out, and 
clattered to the deck. 

“Ease off your booms! Down peaks!” 

Somebody moved to obey. The foresheet whizzed; the 
main refused. In a moment the schooner rushed up into the 
wind’s eye with all her blocks and canvas thundering. The 
mate made a trumpet of his hands. 

“Hard up! Hard up!” he shouted. “She’ll be in irons 
with this tide under her bow. Stand back. Skipper — give me 
hold.” 

Saunderson argued. He pointed truculently at the fallen 
spars: “Clear away — wreck!” he growled, “clear away, an’ 
be damned!” Then again a voice leaped — insistent, ringing 
the tale of a new hazard. 

“Ahoy! Ahoy! See that steamer?” 

A man climbed to leeward and peered under the draggled 
mainsail. “Where away?” he yelled. 

“Clost abeam!” 

The mate saw. He moved towards the rigging shouting: 
“All up! She’s done. Aft, my sons — out boat.” 

The voices mingled in a shout: “Steamer ahoy! ahoy! 
Hard a-starboard — hard over!” they spoke very clearly, very 
concisely; with the strained passion of men whose lives were in 
the balance. 

The squall had spent its fury; the gale garnered its forces 
under Leigh hills, fetching breath for further effort. The 
disabled schooner hung in the wind, her head drooping, her 
sails shivering. As a horse, finding himself riderless on the 
outskirts of a fight stands whinnying for his master, so the 
Bhiebell hung faltering, trembling, and in fear. 


TOOTH AND NAIL 


265 


The men engaged in launching the boat looked up. Within 
fifty yards two dim lights winked in the blinding rain; a red 
blotch and a green; high overhead a faint smudge swung in 
the fork where in well-ordered vessels a mast-head light burns. 
In five minutes, unless they could lower the boat, the whole 
crew would be in “Kingdom Come.’^ 

“Out knives — cut her away. See the plug’s in. Oars? 
Two of ’em. Bailer? Gawd! its’ nowhere. Painter for’ud 
— out wi’ her! Hell! look slippy.” 

A sound like the rustle of a thousand tons of straw grew into 
the night. The steamer moved out of the murk — a ponderous 
thing throwing a wave. She butted. A sea leaped the schoon- 
er’s deck, and the men thrown from their feet, spluttered; hold- 
ing hazardously to ropes. Some one swore loudly in a thin 
falsetto. Then, amidst a hail of falling gear and the noise of 
splintered woodwork, the steamer drew astern. 

And with her movement came the end. For some the end 
of all things, the “Kingdom Come” of the river; for others a 
more protracted fate. 

Still the river swirled madly beneath leaden skies. 



part I? 

%aunDet0on )LeaD0 


CHAPTER I 

The Prophecy of Old Moore 

D usk was failing on the picturesque village by the river 
when a cart clattered noisily across the wharf and 
drew up before the smithy door. Tony Crow, hearing 
the sound of wheels and scenting a job, came quickly 
forward. “Socks!” he exclaimed as a man sprang to 
the ground and moved to meet him, “Socks, if it ain’t 
Micky Doolan ’an ah thowt maybe t’were a bruken tire.” 

Micky gripped him by the arm, excitement written large in 
every feature. ‘ ‘Whisht 1” he cried. “Have ye heard the news ?” 

The blacksmith slapped his thigh and rolled a warning 
look at his friend. “News,” he said, “is loike the papers — 
made oop o’ lies wi a jorum o’ detail ta gie it the semblance o’ 
truth. Ah never trust news, an’ ah take sma’ heed o’ clack.” 

He turned oracularly to face the small boy who stood blink- 
ing before the forge. “Teddy!” he cried, “ah heerd t’factry 
horn blowed this five minutes. Ah don’t want to be haulet 
oop under t’act. Scoot! Shop’s shut.” 

The boy found his jacket and departed winking monstrously. 
“That boy,” said Tony when they were alone and he had 
closed the door, “is late fra t’Boord Schule. He’d worm a 

267 


268 


THE ISSUE 


secret oot o’ a dommed axle-tree an’ sell it fer cigarettes. Noo, 
Micky, oot wi’t.” 

The two men drew together in the red glow of a fire which 
still leaped and spluttered under bellows slowly becoming 
exhausted. Micky produced a paper and stood holding it in 
hand. 

“Ut’s the curse,” he announced with the solemnity of one 
who sees that he has prophesied correctly. “I told him how 
ut would be an’ now she’s dhown the cellar — ye mark that?” 

“Boon t’cellar — wha’s putten awa noo?” 

‘‘The Bluebell, my son — the Bluebell an’ all her crew.” 

“Socksl” Tony Crow ejaculated standing unmoved, Blue- 
bell — art sure, mon ? Sure ? ” 

“Listhen,” Micky returned and began to turn his paper — 

“A message from Port Victoria,” he remarked in paren^ 
thesis. “I copied ut from a telegraft lyin’ in the Scorcher’s 
office. Ut’s this: 

“ ‘Schooner Bluebell of Riverton, official number 56784, 
sunk in collision with steamer unknown, east of Chapman. 
Fate of crew uncertain. Some if not all drowned. Further 
particulars later.’ ” 

The blacksmith took the paper and holding it gingerly with 
an unsoiled corner of his apron, examined it before the fire. 
“Well, ah’m dommed!” he remarked at length and punched 
an unoffending thigh. 

He looked up at Micky Doolan as though he expected some 
further statement, but the Irishman was moving about the 
smithy jubilant and bent only on advertising the degree of 
accuracy he had attained in prophecy, and as though in 
some measure he was responsible for the strange fact of ful- 
filment. 

“Ut wass bound to come,” he cried out, “ut followed quoit 


THE PROPHECY OF OLD MOORE 


269 


natural— quoit. Bill Jeffries, ye’ll remember, wass the first to 
coil dhown his ropes. Ut happened as we came up river from 
the Gat — off Thames Haven. Seems he got jammed in the 
gear or wass thryin’ to save the cat; but annyway he got pretty 
nigh cut in half before we could move to help him. He’s wan 
— the first — but ut’s a beginnin’. 

There followed Jem Walters, the cook, ye’ll moind, who wass 
knocked overboard when the Deerstalker gibed in a breeze off 
Margate. 

^‘Nothin’ in that, ye’ll say. A common enough happenin’. 
Good. But ye’ll moind that Jem Walters wass in the Bluebell 
too that night in the Gat. Well, he’s quiet now an’ will shpoil 
no man’s grub this soide av Kingdom Come. Two, my son,” 
he announced, and stood a moment eyeing the blacksmith’s 
gaunt form, looking through him with the gravity of a seer. 

‘*An’ now there’s this,” he went on, suddenly marching to 
emphasise his opinion. *^The BluebelVs down the cellar an’ 
her crew are in Kingdom Come. Ye moind that? Well, 
Saunderson wass skipper av the Bluebell that noight in the Gat, 
an’ now he’s dhown the cellar — three. Three ye moind within 
a spatterin’ of months, an’ yet they say 

‘^Arrbo! arroo! If I could get since into their heads. If I 
could get them to look at ut square. If I could make them see 

wid my eyes in a manner of shpakin’ I’d ” 

Socks 1” said Tony Crow with sudden energy, “you’ve 
gotten a bee in yer bonnet, ma mon. Aal the crew’s not gone. 
T’paper says so. Bide a wee. Dinnot gae so fast. Ah doot 
Win’bag’s no the man ta gae anywheer wi’ oot a fecht. Wha 
telled ye he’s doon t’cellar?” 

“Who ? No one. But I know, I know.” 

“Man,” said the blacksmith with a large emphasis, “ye 
knaw too much or too leetle— ah’m no sure which. But, if it’s 


270 


THE ISSUE 


no odds, ah’U wait till ah see Win’bag’s corpse afore ah admeet 
he’s a deed un. 

“Also, Mike Doolan,” he proceeded in slow commentary on 
the position as it appeared to him, “it seems t’me ye stand in 
some peeril yoursel’. Ah’ve heard you were on VBluebell — 
likewise thot you were mate.” 

Micky Doolan accepted the position at once. “Thrue bill,” 
he said, “I wass.” 

“Weel,” the blacksmith suggested, “ah’m no gaein’ t’ pro- 
phecy; but ah’d be carefu’ — verra carefu’ wi’ them sluckit- 
sassers ah see ye bashin’ arahnd in. Seems t’me it don’t want 
a curse t’get a mon turnit into fish-meat these times — ner a 
blessin’ neither. Therefore ” 

“ Arrah! give ut a rest,” Micky Doolan interjected. “I know 
whhat I know, an’ I know we’re goin’ to see soights we never 
thought to see if Win’bag’s not dhown the cellar. Fer if,” 
he threw out, negligently twisting a thumb to indicate Riverton, 
“if there’s anny truth in a whisper I heard beyant . . . 
Elliott’s on his way back — an’ ” 

“Elliott!” the blacksmith shouted standing threateningly 
over this spinner of yarns which appeared to fall true. “ Gae 
on — gae on!” 

“Nay; if you take it like that, I’m done,” said the Irish- 
man. 

He turned on his heel advertising an annoyance he scarcely 
felt. “But if,” he added, “you care to prove my words, get out 
an’ see Tom Surridge — maybe he won’t tell yez anny lies.” 

“Tom Surridge?” Tony Crow ejaculated, still very red and 
resentful. 

“Aye; he’s drivin’ in from Riverton to meet yez— with the 
letters. See?” 

He moved from the smithy door, crossed the street and got 


THE PROPHECY OF OLD MOORE 


271 


himself into the Southern Trader. The landlord welcomed 
him with the enthusiasm of one who perceives a customer 
who guarantees the production of clack. 


For some minutes the blacksmith considered the information 
thrust thus enigmatically upon him; then he, too, passed out 
into the village street and made towards the Riverton road. 

If there was any truth in Micky Doolan’s statements it was 
evident that he might expect to meet Tom Surridge at any 
moment. He decided as he trudged slowly up Slave Alley that 
it was very necessary to meet; essential, in point of fact, if he 
were to carry out that trust of his with regard to Susie. 

He came to the cross roads and stood peering into the dark. 
A cart or two lumbered heavily by, then came the sound of a 
trotting horse and the noise of iron- tired wheels. ^‘Tom Sur- 
ridge for money,” said the blacksmith, and stood to intercept 
him. 

The little man would have driven past if Tony had per- 
mitted it, but at the sound of that big, bass voice the horse 
was on his haunches and Tom crying excitedly: 

‘‘Tony Crow, as I’m alive! Get up, man. Get up. I were 
cornin’ for you — by law ! I were cornin’ for you.” 

The blacksmith mounted and drew the apron about him. 
“Weel,” he said, “thot’s strange; fer ah were cornin’ t’ you, 
masen.” 

“Luck!” said Tom Surridge, busy turning into the North- 
dean and Swinfleet Lane. 

“Mike Doolan,” Tony decided, grim of attitude. 

“An’ he’s told you about the letter ? ” 

“Trust him.” 

Surridge fumbled in his pocket and passed it to his friend: 


272 


THE ISSUE 


‘Ht’s from Elliott right enough — Elliott who were given out to 
be down the cellar. What d’ye make o’ that, Tony?” 

The blacksmith took the envelope gingerly between finger 
and thumb and held it to the lamp. 

“What d’ye make of it ? ” Surridge demanded again. 

“Dom ma een!” said Tony Crow emphatically punching the 
thing in his palm, “an’ thot’s Yerkshur,” he added as though 
explanation had been necessary. 

Surridge shuffled on the high seat beside him and flicked 
at the mare. “Olaw! O law!” he cried. “To think as that 
letter should ’a come a’ ter all. ” 

“If you was to swear, Tammas,” said Tony Crow, “t’ud do 
ye a power o’ gude.” 

“Maybe; but I’m thinkin’ it mought result in a habit, an’ 
swearin’ is the wunnerfullest thing fer puttin’ my old woman’s 
back up as ever was. Talk about cats! Why arched backs 
ain’t in it. It’s a matter o’ spinal diseage — that’s what it is.” 

“Tammas,” said the blacksmith, “ah’m coomin’ t’ Swinfleet. 
Ah’ve gotten a word t’ say t’ Susie.” 

It was quite dark when at length they drew rein before the 
old-world cottage at the back of Swinfleet village. Tom had 
been anxiously expected both by Susie and his wife. The 
latter rushed without ceremony to the door at the sound of his 
coming and was immediately doleful at the plight of her spouse. 

“Sakes alive!” she cried, “if you ain’t chilled to the blessed 
bone an’ in for prelature rhumatics, I don’t know. Come in, 
Tom — where have you bin? What? Mr. Crow, too — Tony 
Crow I do declare. Come in both of you an’ get your hands 
warm. It’s as cold as a blessed church with the roof off. 
Take your uncle’s coat, Susie — there’s a dear.” 

Tom walked into the passage beside the girl. His air was 
important; his eyes curiously shy of meeting hers. He slid up 


THE PROPHECY OF OLD MOORE 


273 


to her, speaking solemnly. ‘‘Susie,’’ he whispered, “I’ve got 
so’thin’ to say to you.” 

Susie halted. The fact of Tony’s appearance and the late- 
ness of the hour had already made their mark. She looked up 
with quick intuition. “There’s no further trouble, is there?” 
she questioned. 

“No — no trouble. Only joy this time. Why — what d’ye 
want most of all on this here hearth, Susie ?” He made the sig- 
nal relative to the receipt of a letter. 

“Nonsense,” she faltered. 

“True as gospel, Susie.” 

The girl faced him, white to the lips. It seemed that she 
was about to faint. 

“Pluck up,” he begged. “It’s from foreign — it’s all right. 
O law! harken to them pigs.” 

He drew the letter cautiously from his pocket and thrusting 
it within her, hand made for the door. “Read it,” he urged. 
“O law! he’s all right; it’s from foreign. Bless us an’ keep us! 
there’s Zulu goin’ for number four — givin’ her hopscotch, she is. 
Read it upstairs.” 

He vanished at once, perturbation showing in every line of his 
kindly face as he went on a fancied errand to the sties. Mrs. 
Surridge entered the kitchen a moment later and discovered 
the blacksmith standing before the fire alone. She cried out, 
scandalised at the fact: “Sakes alive! Where’s Tom an’ 
Susie? Why what has took the man out there now?” The 
sound of hoggish welcome had announced the fact of Tom’s 
occupation. 

“If that man ain’t a fair miracle,” she decided, “I don’t 
know. Why — ^what’s the trouble, Tony ? ” 

“Nay, Missis, there’s no trouble,” said Tony as he rubbed 
his hands before the blaze. 


274 


THE ISSUE 


“Tom don’t go pig soothin’ unless,” Mrs. Surridge announced 
emphatically. Then glancing about, “An’ where in the name 
of all blessed prophets is Susie ? ” 

Tony chuckled. 

“Ah doot it’s yon letter thot’s done it,” he said. 

“What letter?” 

“T’ letter Tammas bringet fra Elliott.” 

Mrs. Surridge leaned forward in absolute dismay. 

“A letter — from Elliott?” she gasped. 

“ Thot’s it. Missis. T’ a nail it is.” 

Mrs. Surridge gathered up her skirts preparing to depart. 
She turned to the blacksmith with a set expression of disquietude 
“Old Moore’s right,” she asserted. “Wars an’ rumours of 
wars; danger to a crow-ned head an’ trouble in the ager-i- 
culteral districts. If this ain’t the trouble he speaks of — I 
don’t know.” 


CHAPTER II 


Tony Produces His Link 

T ony grow and Tom Surridge stood with their backs 
to the fire, smoking pipes, with the air of men on whom 
the world weighed heavily. They were silent. Their hands 
were pocketed. They stared at the blue fumes moving 
spirally up there amidst the beams and hooks and sides of 
bacon. It seemed necessary to watch something, so they 
watched the smoke. 

For perhaps fifteen minutes they remained engrossed; then 
Mrs. Surridge whisked into the kitchen and silence gave place 
to sound. 

‘‘To think,’’ said the lady with a dolorous inflection, “to 
think as that letter has come too late by a handful of days! ” 

The two men regarded her with solemn eyes; but they made 
no comment. Mrs. Surridge took their silence in the light of 
an affront and stumbled headlong into an account of what 
had passed. 

“I went up to find Susie,” she announced, “an’ there she 
is leanin’ out o’ winda, searchin’ the sky for rays of comfort. 

“ ‘Rays there may be,’ I said, ‘but they’re all mixed up with 
rhumatics an’ the like out there — come ini’ An’ I took her by 
the solders, an’ shut the winda. 

“ ‘Susie,’ I says, ‘take heart, my deary, take heart — there’s 
a pretty.’ And she slid into my arms like a babby lookin’ for 

the breast, an’ Sho! Tom, stand quiet — there’s a man; 

and don’t look as though you wanted to eat me.” 

275 


276 


THE ISSUE 


‘T never moved,” Surridge asserted with an injured air. 

‘‘No; but you might have moved. You’ve got no more 
synthapy than a tomato, for all you look so red.” 

Tom strayed across and put his hand on his wife’s shoul- 
der. “How’s the lass?” he questioned. “How do she take 
it?” 

Mrs. Surridge fell into his arms and wept for some minutes 
without audible response. At length she looked up. 

“The blessed child’s frettin’ her soul to fritters,” she decided, 
taking up the cudgels anew, “an’ who’s to wonder at it? Not 
I, Tom, nor you, Mr. Crow, I’m sure. Well, there old Moore’s 
right. There is trouble in the ager-i-culteral districts, an’ 
much good may it do him.” 

Surridge glanced appealingly at his friend, but meeting with 
no encouragement turned once more to his wife. 

“An’ what about this letter. Missis? Do it say anything?” 
he questioned. 

Mrs. Surridge threw her arms about his neck, administering 
a caress to hide her emotion. 

“Say!” she exclaimed, “it says a many things; it’s pages long 
an’ it tells of all that happened after he took an’ run.” She 
broke away and continued energetically, ticking off the points 
on the fingers of her left hand: 

“First he took the Garter Pier boat — as was said. Then he 
hooked a steamer and dumb on board. Then comes an 
accident — as was said. His boat is smashed in half; but him, 
bein’ on board the steamer, takes no harm. Then the steamer 
people finds him an’ they put him in irons on the bridge — 
handcuffs, Tom — an’ Susie never a bit the wiser. So there he 
stands, like Cazebianker, until another steamer comes sneakin’ 
out o’ the fog an’ hits them so as they all have to swim for 
their blessed lives.” 


TONY PRODUCES HIS LINK 


^77 


^*Swim?” Surridge ejaculated as his wife paused for breath, 
“Where did he swim to?” 

“To a ship that took him to South Amelica — three months 
on the voyage — an’ never a chance of sendin’ his letter. An’ 
now he’s on one of them Pacific boats cornin’ home quick as 
snails after rain. An’what are you goin’ to do about it?” 

Again she halted, breathless and agitated of mien; then 
having in a measure regained her composure, she looked at 
Tom, and sighed. 

“What are you goin’ to do about it? That’s what I want to 
know.” 

Tom watched Tony Crow. 

“It’s a ke-nundrum,” he asserted and fell into silence. 

“It’s aa thot,” Tony acquiesced, following suit. 

“Eh! Tom,” Mrs. Surridge broke out, a reminiscence of 
what she had read rushing in, “ it’s a good letter — a letter with a 
heart, an’ I must say you never writ me the like; but there, 
you never had to fly for your life on your blessed wedding day, 
as Jack had, which makes all the diffalence.” 

Mrs. Surridge sighed, so also did Tom. “There won’t be 
no chance o’ sleep,” he averred, “not fer a month o’ Sundays.” 

His wife seemed to divine his thoughts: “It’s enough to 
undermile her institution,” she said, “the way you let that girl 
be worried. I wonder at you; indeed I do.” 

“What could I do?” Tom questioned pertinently. 

“What did you drive her into Riverton for — an’ marry her to 
a person old enough to be her father, without so much as a 
woman of her own sect to see her straight ? I would have seen 
Saundisson dead and in his blessed coffin with the grass growin’ 
green on top of him first.” 

“I couldn’t do more than I did. Mother. Why what could I 
do ? She said if I didn’t drive her she’d walk: so what could I 


278 


THE ISSUE 


do? Besides,” he continued, gaining confidence in the 
knowledge of Tony’s presence; “as far as I can mind, you 
always were for her marrying Saundisson. ‘A fine figure of a 
man,’ says you. T don’t like him,’ says I. T don’t mind you 
ever likin’ a big man, Tom,’ says you, an’ there I left it.” 

Mrs. Surridge turned to view him. She took in his parts 
critically and they struck her as being incomplete. “Tom,” 
she said; “I always said that you had a disea ge, an’ that their 
name is deaf an’ stoopid. I ask Mr. Crow: What do you 
think of a man as would let a gell go away with — sakes alive! 
I can’t name him — an’ him with a wife, or maybe two wives in 
diffalent parts of the country, an’ likely as not a family to keep 
in each. I ask you, Tony, for I know you won’t lie.” 

“Nay, Missis,” said the blacksmith with his great laugh; 
“I don’t know thot ah’m qualified t’geeve ye an answer. Wim- 
min’s curus cattle t’handle; ye never know where to have them. 
Ah’m no sayin’ owt against ’em, or Susie, ye’ll mind; but on 
t’whole ah would not hanker after t’job.” 

“But the gell’s married, an’ here’s Saundisson with another 
wife,” Mrs. Surridge expostulated. “What are you goin’ to do 
about that?” 

Tony Crow apparently had no idea, so she turned once more 
to her husband, speaking sarcastically. 

“Tom, you’re on the Cauncel,* an’ know all about the law 
an’ such. What happens to a man that marries two women 
both of them livin’ at the same time ? An’ what happens to the 
gell, number two, that is ?” 

Tom thrust his fingers through his hair, regarding her with 
grave anxiety. “Don’t ast me,” he blurted; then with a sud- 
den inspiration : “Why, she gets quit of him, I reckon.” 

Mrs. Surridge laughed. “You’re a pretty Cauncellor!” 


♦The village council. 


TONY PRODUCES HIS LINK 


279 

she cried. “No wonder folks say the rates have riz. Why, 
how do you do your business ? ” 

“Take the tip from them as know, or ast the clerk,” Tom 
answered glibly. 

“An’ who’s the clerk?” 

“Mr. Sherren.” 

“T’lawyer man?” Tony interjected. 

“Aye; he’s a lawyer right enough.” 

“Then wi’ your permission. Missis, we’ll take a run rahnd an’ 
see him. Strike t’iron whiles it’s hot, Tammas; thot’s ma motta. 
It’s no his office, or his hours; but ah’ve often worket overtime 
fer him, an’ ah’m thinkin’ he’ll not take it amiss if we look him 
up. Come on.” He linked his arms with Surridge and 
dragged him away. 

An hour later they returned from their conference and 
found Mrs. Surridge busily engaged preparing supper and Susie 
helping gaily. Tony crossed over and took the girl’s hand. 

“Ah’m glod t’see ye,” he remarked. “Noo listen: we’ve 
catched oor hare an’ we’re goin’ to eat him. Tammas! oot wi 
yon paper.” He rubbed his hands Jubilantly and took a seat. 
Surridge pulled an envelope from his pocket, opening it with 
shaking fingers. 

“We ast him,” he explained, “to put it down so that it would 
be clearer. So he writ it. Susie, it’s all right; it’s as right as 
seven peas in a pod.” 

“How?” 

“Read it — read it,” he answered. “It’s for you — an’ Mr. 
Sherren says, ‘Bring the gell to my office to-morra an’ we’ll see 
what can be done.’ So to-morra you’ll have to jaunt as far as 
Riverton.” 

Susie took the paper, and opening it read aloud: 

“ ‘A man by marrying another woman while his first wife is 


28 o 


THE ISSUE 


alive, commits bigamy, and is liable to prosecution and penal 
servitude for not exceeding seven years, and not less than three 
years, with, or without, hard labour; unless his first wife had 
been continually absent from him for the space of seven years 
before the date of his second marriage, and he did not know 
that his first wife was living.’ ” 

“Hot for Saundisson!” cried Tom rubbing his hands. 
“Law! I wouldn’t be in Saundisson’s shoes for money.” 

“Haud on, Tammas! Wait fer t’ither part. Socks! thot’s 
wheer Susie gets t’pull o’ Saundisson — by t’ skeen of her teeth,” 
he added sotto voce. 

Susie continued breathlessly: “ * The position of the woman 
who married him when his first wife was living is as follows: 

“ ‘ The marriage ... so far as she is concerned . . . 
would be a nullity — and void.’ ” 

Tony interjected, “Meanin’ you’re no married at aa. Lass — 
think on ’t!” 

Susie glanced over and resumed: “ ‘She would be . . . 

at ... liberty — to marry — who and when she pleased 
. . . and ... by so doing . . . she would not 

commit . . . any offence . . . against the law.’ Oh, 

Auntie!” 

Mrs. Surridge caught her in her arms, patting her back. 
“That,” she asserted, “is what I call a clear prescription. 
Puddles in the road couldn’t be clearer — not though you’ve 
walked through ’em,” she added reflectively. She moved 
across the kitchen and placed a hot pie on the table. “Come 
along— it’s gettin’ cold. Cold pastry is like a fog ; it gets on your 
chest.” 

Then all took chairs and Tom cried vociferously: “An’ 
to-morra you’re to see him an’ take action to give the beggar 
his doo. Hooray, Susie!” 


TONY PRODUCES HIS LINK 


281 


*T’ll see Mr. Sherren,” she replied, a dim smile lighting her 
features; ‘‘but I don’t know about taking action. I think per- 
haps it would be better to wait until Jack comes home.” 

“Thot’s a sensible plan,” said Tony as he reached for the 
bread. “Specially as things have tumbled oot. Ye see,” he 
went on as the others awaited his explanation: “ah’ve seen 
Mrs. Saundisson since I were here last — an’ ah’ve seen Micky 
Doolan. There’s been trouble dahn river wi V Bluebell ” 

Mrs. Surridge broke in with a dolorous inflection. “Ah! 
I always said that he’d come to a bad end; what else can you 
expect from a man with a passel of wives ? ” 

“One’s mostly enough; Missis,” Tony asserted with a laugh, 
“ Meanin,’ as ah said before, no offence to anyone here present.” 

Having extricated himself thus from the possibility of any 
subtle meaning, he proceeded at his leisure : “As ah was sayin’, 
Mrs. Saundisson number one has telled me so ’thin’. T' Bluebell 
is dahn the cellar — run into by a sluckit steamer an’ sunk.” 

Mrs. Surridge turned a quick glance on the blacksmith. 
“An’ Saundisson?” she questioned. 

“Nay, Saundisson is safe. Never fear. He’s not t’be lost 
in a colleesion — not he. He’s in hospital, or t’Sailor’s Home, or 
some ither place where he’ll be mendet free of charge.” 

Mrs. Surridge groaned. 

Tony went on with the air of a prophet: “Noo, Mrs. 
Saundisson has got a bit money savit; an’ her husband will be 
sackit by yon Scorcher chap — thot’s a moral. Weel, Saundis- 
son bein’ seek, an’ oot at elbows wi the Guv’nor, it’s safe to say 
he’ll allow his wife t’keep him — an’ we’ll see sights. How? 
Weel, ye knaw as weel as ah do masen, thot Win’bag’s pullin’ 
the strings in t’Cementies strike doon Riverton way — an’ thot 
it’s a fact t’Masters ken as weel. Therefore Saundisson will no 
find it a light an’ easy job t’get another berth, an’ therefore 


282 


THE ISSUE 


he’ll join the fight— thot’s a moral. Ah don’t say anythin’ 
against t’strike, or for it; but ah knaw Win’bag wull be in the 
thick of it, when he’s clear o’ t’hospital.” 

^‘An’ his hands bein’ full,” Mrs. Surridge beamed, ^‘he 
won’t have no time to think about Susie — or ” 

“Nay, Missis, dinnot mistake me. Ah never said thot. 
Saundisson is a man thot can juggle with two balls at once. Ye 
must be kereful. Don’t let her run ony reesks. A man wi a 
broken arm ain’t dead. Meanwhile, Susie, you write t’Jack. 
Tell him ah’ve seen Dolly Crassley, a gell thot knows so’thin’ 
or ah’m dreamin’. Say he’s t’coom hame as quick as God 
Almichty will allow, an’ — ye con say this too — Tony’s gotten a 
bar, maybe two bars forged thot’ll fit graund rahnd t’neck o’ 
Dunscombe’s murderer. Tell ^him that, Susie, wi gude luck fra 
Tony Crow.” 

Mrs. Surridge leaned forward, her eyes wide with interest. 
“What do you mean?” she questioned. 

The blacksmith put his hand in his pocket and produced a 
small oval box with a crown in beaten brass on the cover. His 
face was puckered with the strain of reticence. “ Ah,” mean he 
replied, “thot Mrs. Saundisson picket oop yon box an’ haunded 
it t’me. Tt’s a box ah loove weel,’ says I. ‘Ah saw ye searchin’ 
fer so’thin’ the day ah met ye by t’deetch,’ says she, ‘is thot it?’ 
‘It is,’ ah said, ‘an’ thankee. I wouldn’t lose it fer dumps.’ ” 
Tony replaced the treasure and looked at his friends. “Mrs. 
Surritch,” he said, “ah’d been fossikin’ fer thot box here an’ 
away, fer months. Ah’d been fossikin’ till ah was seek wi 
shame at ma blindness — an’ then — eigh! fer t’curus way o’ 
Proveedence — Mrs. Saundisson found it. 

“Why curus?” he resumed with a note of pride; “because 
thot box was in t ’pocket 0’ t’man wha killet Dunscombe — nowt 
less.” 


TONY PRODUCES HIS LINK 


283 


A long sigh escaped Mrs. Surridge as she, with the others, 
leaned forward quick with expectancy: Tell us! Tell us!” 
they cried. “It wasn’t Elliott — it couldn’t have been — it 
couldn’t ” 

Tony Crow rose slowly from his seat. “Nay,” he replied, 
“it was na Elliott; but ah doot the weesdom o’ clack sae ah’ll 
get me hame.” 

But to Susie, as he stood with her a moment preparing for his 
walk, Tony whispered a sentence that sent the blood leaping 
in the girl’s cheek. “Ah thowt it recht t’tell ye. Lass,” he 
added as a final shaft, “seein’ ye’re like ta be in some doot as 
t’the facks.” 

And this time the girl’s cheeks paled. 


I (* 


CHAPTER III 


The Strike 

D ecember, bleak, rigorous, chining the world with an 
early touch of frost. Gales from the northeast; 
gales from the west; black unholy gales from the south- 
east; then the Inevitable fog cloaking the land while nature 
garnered her forces anew. Sometimes the days were full of 
steam and sullen earth-sweat: then came a burst of wind to 
sweep the poison germs to sea. Sometimes an Interval of 
crisp, dry weather, and mankind sniffing the freshness, dreamed 
of skating; then more fog and mire and foul atmosphere, with 
the tall factory chimneys belching grime and smoke Into the 
heavy air, and no breath of wind astir to lift It off the town. 

The river running beneath leaden skies, took the tint and 
appeared as a swirling torrent of mud driven shamedly from 
the streets of the great city beyond. Sometimes the banks and 
seawalls were hard and crisp and rimed with frost; sometimes 
soft as a quagmire and nearly Impassable. 

Riverton In December has many characteristics, but these 
being the chief suffice. No man having lived a winter In the 
town would venture to dispute them; but, during the winter 
here portrayed, additional features were hideously prominent. 

Gangs of gaunt and hungry workers thronged the streets; 
knots of haggard and unkempt women congregated In groups 
about the stagnant thoroughfares. Crowds of sullen, embit- 
tered men and women, workers and loafers, short and tall 
starving and well fed, crowded the common; and standing shiver- 

284 


THE STRIKE 


285 


ing under the bare trees, hung on the words which fell from the 
lips of impassioned orators, as though they expected to see the 
millennium accomplished in answer to their fervid spoutings. 

Away in grim back streets; before factory, workshop, and 
foundry gates; before the entrance to numberless wharves, 
building yards, gridirons, docks; before big yards and little 
yards; before iron-studded gates and ricketty trellis; before 
the ofiSce of the man who rode to town in his brougham, and 
the office of the man who footed it thither with anxious eyes, 
stood little groups of men with books and sometimes bludgeons, 
waiting to persuade the would-be workers, and those blacklegs 
who had continued their toil during these troubles, to desist. 

These were on picket duty. 

Farther afield, uptown, the wives and daughters of manufact- 
urers, tradespeople, and other small gentry who had nothing 
to do with the business on hand, were mustered under the 
banner of some wily Samaritan, to eke out the fight with pres- 
ents of soup, clothing, and food; forgetting altogether in the 
flush of action and pity, that their president was using them 
and the strikers, as a lever by which he might presently climb 
to that paltry city office, of which he was enamoured. Forget- 
ting also, that when men or dogs fall out it is wise to hustle 
them into a back yard, devoid of brick-bats, and let them fight 
it out in comfortable seclusion. 

Now all these things had come to pass, because the masters 
had fallen under the ban of the trades unions, and a strike 
was in full swing. 

Prominent among those who had banded together for the 
better working of this effective mode of suicide, was a league 
of waterside labourers; the boatmen, lightermen, barge skippers, 
and all the fraternity. They were named the “Rivermen’s 
Union,” and their watchword was “Regeneration of the 


286 


THE ISSUE 


Masses.” How this was to be accomplished, none of the 
speakers were agreed. Every man had his own theory, and 
the personal equation was a very strong factor in the genesis 
of his belief. 

Saunderson was one of the leaders. As Tony Crow had 
predicted, the minute incident which had the honour of being 
the primary cause of all the trouble, was his discharge after the 
Bluebell catastrophe. The Scorcher had made no question of 
the matter; union or no union, strike or no strike, Saunderson 
was ordered to go. 

That this was only a peg whereon to hang the gage of war, 
most men admitted; including some of the more thoughtful 
strikers. But Saunderson held other views. To him it meant 
simply an individual triumph over the Scorcher; the triumph 
of the worker as placed in opposition to the master; the triumph 
of labour as set in antagonism with capital. Saunderson’s 
name was on everyone’s lips; his personality carried all before 
him ; his energy, his vigour, his decision were the stepping stones 
by which he mounted. He was eloquent in his rough and 
untutored fashion, and quickly caught the ear of those who had 
come out in sympathy only. 

The man was as indefatigable in his pursuit of the masters 
as he had been indefatigable in his pursuit of Susie. He was 
as unscrupulous in his methods of attempting to bring the 
masters to his feet as he had been unscrupulous in his endeav- 
ours to gain Susie’s love and companionship. For the nonce 
his earlier occupation was suspended. Just now he was bent 
on revenge, pure and simple; with visions of the fame he would 
acquire when his toils were accomplished. 

The Scorcher had behaved to him as no man should behave 
to a brother man. His wife, the woman of lachrymose aspect 
and tiresome methods of attempting to regain his affections, 


THE STRIKE 


287 


was an effectual shield against the want and misery suffered by 
his sympathisers. For Mrs. Saunderson had discovered her 
husband in hospital and had been so assiduous in her care, 
then and afterward, that for a while he surrendered his manly 
strength and beauty to her keeping — not, indeed, that he suf- 
fered remorse, but on the more sordid ground, that she had 
money and could aid him. 

As she had said to Tony Crow, ‘‘Money works wonders.” 
It had. But one cannot live permanently on the principle and 
not suffer for the indiscretion; yet this is what the patient 
woman, who had told the blacksmith of her troubles, was doing; 
and she was doing it simply because Saunderson was her hus- 
band; the man she had loved in her girlhood; and because the 
bitterness of her anger was all eclipsed by his helpless plight, 
and she was able to win his smiles now that she could aid 
him. 

Thus had Saunderson lived for six weeks since the strike 
commenced, and had suffered nothing of the starving anguish 
which had been the lot of his followers. These things come 
but rarely to the leader. Saunderson was a leader. Only one 
was higher than he in organising and carrying out the details 
of processions, picketting, and stump oratory — and he was 
the secretary of one of the London labour guilds, and in receipt 
of a snug income. 

The wolf may attack the stragglers in a flock of sheep; the 
enemy may bayonet the worn-out rank and file ; but the shepherd 
and the general must escape unscathed; else, how on the face 
of God’s earth is the work of leading to be done ? 

It is one of the laws of civilisation, and even those theoristic 
humanitarians who aim at regenerating the masses by provid- 
ing pap and the piano for every British infant; who would 
pantaloon the naked savage and smother vice and drinking by 


288 


THE ISSUE 


Act of Parliament, are not averse to wobble their comfortable 
carcasses under its gracious and inspiriting protection. 

These things all happened in the year of our Lord, 19 — , 
but on the 20th of December, when the worn year was stag- 
gering like an old man, heavy with the weight of days; when the 
world had approached within sound of carols and laughter of 
Christmas, sterner events were in train. 

Disaffection was beginning to appear. Strike pay had 
become marvellously scarce. The gaunt-eyed men, with their 
pinched in waists and their jaunty, devil-may-care stride, 
were beginning to melt away from the general’s care and 
showed a tendency to go over to the master’s citadel. 

The grim misery of a sodden earth; the cries of the starving 
children; the patient look of suffering in the women’s eyes, 
and their own aching, vacuous misery, which no bowls of soup, 
nor promiscuous, charity-found loaf could assuage, were driv- 
ing them thither. 

What was to be done? Obviously something strong; some- 
thing efficacious; something that should strike terror into the 
hearts of those grinders of human souls — the masters. 

A meeting of the well-fed leaders and their following was 
convened at Riverton. The former jaunted thither in han- 
soms, the others crawled there painfully on foot. 

This panacea, that panacea; this proposal, the other proposal, 
were submitted duly and with excessive circumlocution to the 
followers, who sat or stood in silence, glaring hungrily at each 
other. 

A deputation to the masters: would that avail? Sha! it 
would but indicate their extremity. An appeal to the other 
Unions for help? That would take time, and they were starv- 
ing. 

A procession, with a band and boxes to collect subscriptions? 


THE STRIKE 


289 

Take it away! A flea-bite on so huge a carcass, who would 
feel it. Take it away! 

Double the pickets ? Give us a rest ! Take it away ! Take 
it away! 

Obviously something must be done or the movement would 
collapse of sheer inanition. Who was there fit to lead this 
halting crew? Where was the man born to lead who would 
now step into the gap and put life into these dullards ? 

Saunderson was that man. 

A hoarse murmur of excitement grew in the secluded river- 
side grounds when it was seen that Saunderson was on his legs. 
The faces looked up at him; pale, gaunt, with stubbly beards 
and heavily lined eyes; men who thought, men who shouted; 
men with visions, men, stolid, apathetic; a sea of white faces 
with wistful, roving eyes; with savage eyes searching the 
unresponsive sky for a sign; waiting mute to be told what they 
must do — how. A chill wind swept through the ragged ranks; 
the river babbled in ears dulled by the hum of machines. They 
stared before them and saw the tall, smokeless chimneys hold- 
ing lean fingers to heaven; pointing a signal they could not read. 
They stared to the left where lay a dim vista of slum-land 
perched on the river wastes; houses huddled together, dark, 
full of smells, the kennels which sheltered them by night. A 
pestilential neighbourhood this, abounding in beer shops, 
pawn shops, gin-palaces, places of amusement for the sanscu- 
lotte of our cities. They turned to the right and their eyes fell 
on other houses; houses surrounded by trees, sleek lawns, 
gravelled drives — the Masters’ land, standing high out of the 
river fog; high, where the air could move and the sun could 
laugh. The faces looked up. Voices mingled in a shout. 
Saunderson, who knew them, whom they knew, was on his legs, 
standing bareheaded and bowing to the plaudits which wel- 


290 


THE ISSUE 


corned him. They shouted their joy, and he lifted his 
hand. 

“Fellow- workers!” he roared from his eminence on the cart- 
tail; his great bass voice lashing them with its earnest vigour. 
“Fellow- workers an’ Sons of Toil! Let me have a say.” 

He threw away his hat and rolled back his cuffs as he faced 
his audience. They cheered, and the uproar grew boisterous 
when it was seen that the London Labour Secretary had resigned 
his place. Saunderson vociferated, waving his arms to mark 
his points: “You are all like sheep — without a shepherd,” he 
asserted in the brazen tones of the demagogue; “you have 
played follow-me-leader till your leaders are stuck fast in the 
bog, and some of you are for caving in. 

“Hold on a bit — I’ll go alone. 

“What d’ye say to me for a leader? What d’ye say if I 
show you how to win ? to win on every point — to win all along 
the line? an’ to beat those Gawd-forsaken fossils, the Aristoc- 
racy? They tread on you.”- (Groans.) “ They starve you 1 ” 
(Shouts and groans.) “They grind you and polish off your 
wives an’ children in the mill of perdition!” (Loud shouts 
and yells of execration.) “Why should they revel in vice an’ 
pleasure ? Why should they tread us in the ground while they 
roll over it in the gilded coaches our labour has found them? 
Shall I tell you why ? Shall I ? ” 

The shouts rose: “Goon! Go on, Win’bag! Let’s have 
it. No more foolin’.” The noise abated and he resumed: 

“Down river, on the Medway saltin’s, in frost and snow, in 
rain or fine we dig their clay, we load their barges; an’ in frost 
or snow, gale or shine we run it up to their wharves, bucket it, 
drive their cranes, fill the trollies. You know as well as I do 
what this means. Sometimes it means somethin’ more. Some- 
times a poor devil gets caught an’ comes out wrong end first— 


THE STRIKE 


291 


good! it’s all one to the masters; it’s all in the day’s work; 
one chap less in the world to cry for a job — it’s nothing to 
anyone. 

“That’s one bit; now comes another. The masters build 
houses on land they own; we’ve got to take them — the wages 
they pay us goes back as rent. They hold shares in the pubs 
and gin-shops, the co-operatives — the wages they pay us goes 
back in dividends. Ten years in their factories fills a man’s 
lungs wiv dust; he caves in, dies: what comes to his wife an’ 
children ? Are they helped — are they ? God knows they 
aren’t. God knows they go on the rates — or starve. What 
odds ? No odds — a bloomin’ workin’ man the less to talk. 

Sometimes a chap gets up an’ makes a row in Parliament 
about all this. He makes a thunderin’ row, because, perhaps, 
some poor devil has been nipped between the buffers, or a 
crew’s got drowned because of rotten sails, or a dozen has got 
blown to Kingdom Come by a patched up boiler — good! 
There’s a row. The Guv’ment side listen. They see it looks 
like an adverse vote — they say, ‘That’s bad.’ They say, 
‘That’s a damned bad case; it’s the worst we’ve heard of; what 
shall we do to remedy such a outrageous state of affairs ?’ Then 
up jumps another gent — Guv’ment side — he shakes his old 
head, wags his pot belly, an’ says he: ‘His Majesty’s Guv’ment 
accept the position. They will do somethin’ to ameliorate the 
lot of these poor workers.’ And, in the papers you see how the 
remark was received with cheers — sheers, my sons, is what 
they mean — sheers. The gent turns round to his mates at 
this an’ winks the other eye. He holds up his hand: ‘His 
Majesty’s Guv’ment propose,’ says he, ‘to establish a Royal 
Commission to look into the facks of this terrible case. The 
names of the gentlemen who’ll serve shall be made known to 
the House wivout delay.’ 


292 


THE ISSUE 


“Then he sits down. So does the Commission. It stays 
sittin’ like a hen on a china egg. Nothin’ comes of it — only, 
mind this! only, the Commission has scotched the row. The 
chap that made the row is dead, or sent up to the House of 
Lords, or made into an archangel, an’ ask I you: Why does 
all this happen ? Why does it happen ? Speak up who knows 

j> 

A shout of encouragement went up. Saunderson thrashed 
his chest with his clenched fists. “I’ll tell you why,” he 
roared. “ My sons. I’ll tell you why! 

“It’s because those chaps who do the speechifyin’, who do 
the promisin’, are all members of some firm or other lookin’ 
to draw their dividends; an’ if it don’t pay to alter things, 
things don’t get altered. Vested interests stand in the way. 
Political economy stands in the way. Says the big pots: Tf 
we alter things our dividends will wait. We can’t stand that, 
give ’em a Commission.’ 

“Mates! I say we find them in soldiers, we find them in 
sailors, we find them in servants, we find them in the sluts that 
fill our streets — an’ what do they give us in return?” He 
dropped his voice just low enough to give the effect. “My sons ! 
they give us a Commission.” (Tremendous shouting and 
Saunderson expanding his chest to the breeze.) 

The noise abated and he resumed: “I say, what if I lead 
you to win off these? Will you listen to me? Answer like 
true men, as Gawd is your Maker.” The cheers rose, they 
filled the sodden air, and those few constables who were on the 
ground were hustled backward by the mob. 

Again Saunderson shouted, holding up his hand for silence: 
“Listen then: I understand your meaning. You take me to 
lead. Very well; if my plan don’t meet wiv your approval 
after I’ve told you, shout me down. I’ll take a back seat.” 


THE STRIKE 


293 


The crowd yelled with one voice: “Goonl Goon!” 

“ Hold on a bit ! What has happened ? I’ll tell you. We’ve 
fought a good fight and we’ve been out — nigh on two months. 
Two months of starvin’, two months of misery, two months of 
Hell’s own weariness — an’ now some of us have gone in! 
Some of us have started suckin’ the blood of the others; some 
of us are worthy of the death of that cursed traitor Judas, an’ 
some more of us want to follow suit. 

“What are we cornin’ to, fellow workers? Are we a nation 
of Judases? Are we a nation of Blacklegs?” (Howls and 
groans of execration.) “ Gawd forbid. I say. Gawd forbid, 
an’ I know he will forbid.” The cheers broke out; they rose 
high, bidding him proceed. 

“Boys! If we stick together we’ve w'on our fight. I tell 
you now — here, that we have won our fight an’ that we’re at 
the back of a great and splendid victory! Are we goin’ to 
give in then ? Are we goin’ to the masters wiv our tails between 
our legs, to curry to ’em and ask them to take us back ? Why 
should we? I say there’s every sign showin’ that we could 
want — that we’ve won. The Board o’ Trade are to step in an’ 
force the masters to accept the arbitration for which we have 
fought — an’ starved — an’ died! It’s as good as settled; but 
there must be no waverih’, no blood-sucking. We must stick 
together; you must follow me!” 

Again the cheers and cries broke long and loud across the 
desolate riverside common. At the end Saunderson was seen 
holding up his hands. “Wait ! ” he shouted. “Hold on a bit! 
Keep your breath, my sons! You’ll want it all to-night. 
To-night, did I say ? ” 

“Yaas! Yaas! To-night, Win’bag. To-night an’ no more 
foolin’.” 

“To-night it shall be. To-night at eight o’clock we meet 


294 


THE ISSUE 


for our constitooshional! To-night we’ll march to the tune 
of the cries of the masters. To-night we’ll carry torches — 
alight! flamin’! burnin’! To-night we’ll give ’em all the 
scare they want, an’ to-morrow the strike will be done.” 

A dull roar of applause greeted the man as he clambered 
from the cart tail and forced his way through the crowd. He 
waved his arms shouting as he went: ^‘At eight o’clock! 
At eight o’clock! By the statue in the square.” 

And the crowd yelled their irresponsive reply: “To-night! 
To-night! Gawd help the mawsters!” 

It all sounded so feasible; it all sounded so just, so equitable 
to these poor starving wretches. The banks were loaded with 
gold ; in the masters’ houses were fires, food, servants, comfort. 
The shops had victuals; they had worked — God! they had 
worked; why should they starve? Why, also, should their 
wives and little ones starve, suffer, die? They should not 
suffer; as there is a God, so also is there an end to all 
things. 

It was a wolfishly hungry, a stern and determined crowd 
that met at eight o’clock that night, when the year was within 
earshot of the annual carols and messages of peace and good- 
will. A crowed that knew its wants, boasted in a leader, stood 
shoulder to shoulder, and had developed enthusiasm. A dan- 
gerous crowd to tamper with had the police been quadrupled. 
Citizen meeting citizen in the ominous and brooding gloom, 
expressed the 'dictum of all who had effects. “There’s trouble 
brewing to-night. Why have they not sent for help? They 
have found a leader. Law and order has none, and patience 
is the watchword of the civic dignitaries. Patience! and the 
rats are swimming the stream.” 

The night was black and still. Heavy clouds obscured the 
stars. Respectability remained indoors warming its toes in 


THE STRIKE 


295 


comfort before the blazing fires; nursing the theories of respec- 
tability — patience, arbitration, bowls of soup, charity — things 
appreciated by the indigent, fought for by loafers, demanded 
by the Hooligan, but scarcely the ultima thule of those who 
desire to hedge labour with a ring fence through which they 
may strike at all outsiders. It was warm in the houses. Fires 
were a luxury, nearly a necessity to those who snuggled by 
them. A bitter night, said Respectability, upon which to be 
abroad. Only a fool would be out on such a night. 

Harkl 

A drum — many drums, the blare and din of a tin-pot band, 
playing hideously the Funeral March. What was it ? Respec- 
tability, shrugging its shoulders, nursing its theories, listened 
and answered: 

“The men on strike taking their constitutional.” 

That was true. But this time with a leader, with a man to 
tell them what they must do, how they must do it, when. The 
midnight march of the unemployed had begun. 

When the hunger-driven wolves espy sleek horses running 
before the sleigh in distant Russia, they take no heed of the fire- 
arms of those who ride behind. They dash onward with snap- 
ping jaws and yelps of famine to revel in the hot blood of their 
victims, and know no halt except to whet their appetites on 
the carcasses of those of their comrades who have fallen. So 
with the human wolf when lashed by hunger. The first small 
fracas serves but to whet the appetite for blood and plunder. 
Then the crowd goes mad and rushes forward heedless and 
drunk with passion. 

As the band headed up the street, followed by the motley 
crew of strikers marching to the tune of the Funeral March, a 
braggart dare-devil, a fool of more exalted rank, stood in the 
entrance of an hotel; his inner man warm, his outer man non- 


296 


THE ISSUE 


existent, jeering at the misery, and inartistic semblance of the 
squalid procession. 

He and many others had grown accustomed to these silent 
protests. They had happened so often. Nothing had resulted ; 
never would result. The thing was a picture of the unappeas- 
able strivings of the sansculotte; a cartoon showing the idiocy, 
the flagrant dpostacy of a Government who had given to Things 
an education and forgotten to fill their bellies. The braggart 
shouted his disdain, speaking with a gesture of contempt — and 
instantly almost before the senseless words had died on the 
night, a score of gaunt men had dashed from the ranks and 
rolled him in the mud. 

But the business did not end there. 

From the hotel came the click of knives and forks, the din of 
popping bottles, laughing voices — Respectability enjoying 
high-priced Christmas cheer, and murmuring the messages of 
peace and good will in luxurious content. A lean giant sprang 
forward. He beckoned with his hand, calling to the stragglers: 
“What ho, mates! Here’s grub an’ to spare! Lay yer sides to 
it! Cotton on to it! Get outside it!” And instantly, as if 
by magic, the procession halted; the hotel was filled; a fighting, 
struggling mob overflowed the doors. 

Those who could not enter broke through the windows and 
seized the things that came their way. Some hustled the 
screaming barmaids and scared waiters into another room; 
others ransacked the till. Some rolled casks of beer and spirits 
into the street; others passed out the more accessible bottles; 
and all who could get within the enchanted circle, drank and 
raved as though indeed the millennium had come. 

Barrels of costly wine and spirit were trundled into the 
street, and for those who had no pots, a copious stream ran 
down the gutter for men and boys to lap. Close at hand were 


THE STRIKE 


297 

several shops: bakers, jewellers, grocers, and the like. The 
contagion of plunder ran through the ranks of desperate 
men, as the ripples run over the river’s surface before a 
breeze. 

They were hungry — take and eat. They were thirsty — take 
and drink. They lacked money — take the jewels. The 
feeble barriers were torn down. Men clambered into the 
higher places and threw the goods broadcast to those who could 
not come near. Gawd! take and eat. Gawd! take and 
remember your starvin’ folks at home. 

The wolves were at work on the sleek carcasses of the horses 
now; their blood thrilled, it burned in veins long accustomed 
to a turgid stream; gin, whisky, port, brandy, beer — all had 
helped to fire that thrill; all had helped to madden them. 
Their eyes were aflame; their hearts were aflame, and the flick- 
ering glare of the torches shone on a mob whose wisdom had 
set before the aching misery of their lives. 

And these things had grown while the civic dignitaries 
bandied terms; while the appalling arbitrament of starvation 
aided men dallying with fate from behind the cover of their 
banking accounts. 

The handful of police who attempted to stem the storm, 
had been driven early from the scene. Who was there left to 
interfere? The civic dignitaries, warming their toes before 
comfortable fires ? Who was to lead ? The dainty civic 
dignitaries ? Someone should send for a magistrate. Someone 
should read the riot act. Someone should send to the Tommies, 
lying in barracks at the other end of the town. Chut! The 
last post had sounded; the Tommies had received no orders 
and the watchword of the civic dignitaries was Patience. 

So the mob having gotten them a leader or two, and having 
tasted the fruits of unalloyed triumph, started again behind 


298 


THE ISSUE 


the band which now played the Funeral March in turn with 
‘‘ See the Conquering Hero Comes.’’ 

A sullen tramp of many feet echoed through the night. A 
flare of torches and the voices of hundreds, singing snatches 
of wholly irrelevant songs. Frightened women peered from 
behind drawn blinds; through the chinks of half-opened shut- 
ters. Groups of hurrying townsfolk raced homeward, and the 
hoarse shout of the leaders, who had caught at the military 
words of command, rang on the still air. 

“By your left, turn!” 

A thousand or more passed to the left at the junction of 
four main streets, and proceeded at quick time to the top of 
the road. They followed the band. The rest, marching 
under the blood-red banner of the Mercantile Marine, bore 
also to the left in obedience to the quaint command: “Hard 
a-starboard 1 Full speed ahead 1 ” 

These were the Regenerators of the Masses, and they swung 
along jauntily in the blaze of torch light to the tune of an old 
sea-song. They chanted in a minor key: 

*‘The times are hard and the wages low; 

Leave her Johnny, leave her; 

The fo’c’sle’s a hell where the slime does grow — 

It’s time for us to leave her!” 

Saunderson led here. His destination was the wide, modern 
road of Riverton, where so many of the masters lived. The 
Scorcher had taken up his abode in Dunscombe’s nondescript 
mansion. The Scorcher was a man who had lived, hitherto, 
solely under the permit of the Regenerators. Now they had 
determined to make an end of him, of his house, and of his 
ways. 

A swarthy crew was by this time busy wrecking the wharf 
and offices which once had owned Dunscombe as their lord. 


THE STRIKE 


299 

These others marching to the tune of ‘‘Leave her, Johnny, 
leave her,” had the more delicate duty allotted to them, of 
“breaking the masters in the strongholds of their vice.” 

A hansom came clattering down the road carrying a man and 
his wife in evening attire. They met the band. The horse 
reared. A group of sweating warriors turned aside. They 
caught the animal, unharnassed him, threw the driver from his 
perch, and bundled the pair into an adjacent garden. 

“Gawd! You’d go to pawties — an’ theatres — an’ there’s 
men an’ women stawvin’l Chuck ’im aat — over the bushes 
wiv ’im! Easy on the lidy! Pawss ’er aat gently — no lawks! 
We’re aat to fight men!” 

A jehu who drove “nobs” in evening dress, was of necessity 
a blackleg. “Dahn wi ’im. Chuck ’im aat!” Presently he 
lay stunned under the wall; the cab was dismantled; the horse 
flying through the night into the country beyond. 

Again the words of command. 

“ Steady helium ! Full speed ahead ! ” and the flushed crew 
were on their way once more. Torches flared. The band 
brayed hideously. Drums rattled; and behind came the jaunty 
waterside labourers shouting their dreary shanty. The 
Scorcher’s house came in sight. A yell of triumph went up 
to heaven. The word was shouted. “Down wi’ the gates! 
Razzee the lot! Watermen to the front! Cementies for- 
ward!” 

On one side of the road lay Dunscombe’s old home, a other, 
shining from the windows of the lighthouse; on the gleam 
behind a lane of weeping willows, stood several large houses, 
tenanted by masters. 

The mob divided with swift precision. They broke through 
the flimsy railings, uttering loud and persistent yells of triumph. 
A gang of burly river-men streamed into the symmetrical garden 


300 


THE ISSUE 


passed the shivering Venus, and thundered on the door to break 
it in. 

Upstairs lights flashed. The shrieks of maids and children 
sounded shrill above the din. 

** Break it down! Ram it! Fetch that plank, someone. 
Flames! how firm it stands! Easy on the women! Get a hold 
of the Scorcher — nothin’ else!’’ 

The door, stood sufficiently long to enable the Scorcher to 
escape. He fled incontinently, carrying his women folk 
through a gate at the foot of the garden. Then it fell, and the 
greedy mob entered sweating to find their vengeance balked. 

A roar of baffled rage sounded in the house; but few were in 
the mood for shouts alone. The men dispersed rapidly; some 
to the bedrooms, some to the basement and study, where lay 
the safe. But this was locked and none had the wit or time to 
open it. Shouts rang high through the house: 

‘‘Wreck the furniture! Light a bonfire in the dining room — 
empty that oil about!” Then, one more enterprising than 
the rest stole through the upper rooms turning on the gas, and 
presently the house stood vacant of all but flames. 

A dense mass of stone-throwing men surged in the roadway, 
bent on the less obtrusive amusement of wrecking glass. They 
were shouting, singing, mad with class-rage as they viewed the 
comfort of the masters in close comparison with their own un- 
doubted misery. They wanted now no leaders. They had taken 
grip firmly on the bit of opportunity. Their appetites were 
whet; the smell of food stung them to further violence. 

Who could stay their idiocy. Not Saunderson, skulking 
unabashed in the background. Not he of the London labour 
guild and the snug salary. The train was laid; the match 
applied; leaders were no longer a necessity in the forefront. 

Pull clouds of smoke issued from the house that once was 


THE STRIKE 


301 


Dunscombe’s. The fairy castle he had so laboriously erected, 
that he had screwed and sweated and cheated to obtain, stood 
now clad in a new garb. Flames issued from door and window ; 
fiery tongues of flame leaped across the garden. Higher, 
fiercer, redder they grew. The roar of human voices died 
momentarily as all turned to gaze upon the conflagration. The 
men, busy wrecking with brickbats the symmetry of other 
houses, paused to look. And in the silence that fell, a new 
sound broke upon the pregnant air. 

The blare of bugle calls in the barracks; and close at hand 
the rhythmic beat of galloping horses. 

The civic dignitaries had acted at last. The cavalry were 
out. Who led now ? Not Saunderson. Not he of the London 
guild. They had heard while the roar of the fight and the fire 
had seemed to baffle all hearing — and they had taken steps 
accordingly. 

A swift shout, a shout of fear, loud, intense, went up through 
the night: “Ware Swaddies!’’ And the dense mass began 
to melt like smoke before a breeze. Down street; up street; 
across walls, through gardens — anywhere, everywhere, out of 
the way of that charging, jingling troop. 

But two or three thousand men cannot stampede with safety, 
or effectually in a moment. Those who had made most noise, 
who were on the outskirts of the mob, who had been busy 
hurling stones — they were able to escape; but the mass stood in 
savage dread, waiting to meet that from which they could not 
fly. 

The jingle of accoutrements, and the gallop of the horses, 
grew insistently. A shuddering groan ran down the street. 
The human block hung poised, impotent with the weight of its 
own indetermination. The charging horsemen were upon 
them. 


302 


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Sabres flashed, scabbards clanked, and the burnished steel 
shone in the light of the blazing house. 

A wild shout, half of fear, half of bravado, sounded from 
those wretches, who, unable themselves to escape, sought to 
stem the racing tide with a volley of brickbats. And then the 
clang and clash of battle, the dull thud of sabres used flat, an 
indiscriminate turmoil; and at its height, the rumbling boom of 
an explosion, while all men held their hands to see the wreck of 
Dunscombe’s house. 

The flames died suddenly amidst the roar. When next 
they leaped aloft, a skeleton mansion stood roofless and window- 
less, with tottering walls amidst the blaze. 


CHAPTER IV 


Finem Respice 



SULLEN December morning broke at length across 


^ the battered town. Knots of men and women stood 
talking with bated breath in squalid streets. Strong 
patrols of police drafted hurriedly during the night from 
neighbouring towns, tramped the pavement. In barracks the 
disgusted Tommies lay under arms. The town hall cells were 
full to overflowing; so also were the hospital wards, where a 
score or more of the wounded were couched, thanking their 
gods for the change. But among them all was no leader. 

The damage to property along the river front was terrible. 
Several yards had been fired, the wharves were wrecked, 
offices ransacked, blacklegs mauled, and barges sunk. In one 
street all the shops were windowless. Property had melted into 
thin air; everything had fallen in the fiery crucible of class- 
war. 

Elsewhere in the town business houses remained closed. 
Respectability nursed terror within doors and watched, cur- 
iously, the magistrates going under protection, to the town hall. 
But there was scant necessity for anxiety now. Last night the 
men had been beaten heavily and decisively. The morning 
saw a wavering crowd, a crowd trusting no one, dreading each 
sound; a crowd without leaders — vanquished. 

A hurried meeting was called early in the afternoon. Saun- 
derson spoke again, urging them vehemently to stand firm. 
The day’s sentences, so he assured them, had been light. It 


304 


THE ISSUE 


was a proof of the awe in which they were held by the masters. 
Masters and Magistrates were all one. They dreaded the 
power of the unions. They dreaded interference by the Board 
of Trade. Most of the prisoners had been dismissed with a 
paltry fine, a fine the unions had paid as they would pay the rest, 
and to-morrow the others would come out in a similar manner. 
He begged them to stand firm. But the men shook their heads; 
they argued: 

“No use, Win’bag; the chaps are goin’ in.” 

Saunderson grew impatient: “Who says so, lies!” he cried. 

“Naa — Gawd’s trewth. Hear their naimes: Margots, 
Tom Boosy, Sutcliffe, an’ others.” 

“Sutcliffe?” 

“Ya-as.” 

“Gawd look askant on the blacklegs. He’s another of 
ours.” 

The meeting broke up without any arrangement having been 
come to. In silence, in apathy, it melted away, like ice before 
a fire, and Saunderson went moodily to his home. The end 
was in sight. He sat down to brood. 

What had been the use of it all ? He asked himself whether 
he had benefited by the course of recent events, whether he was 
any nearer the goal of his ambitions, whether he had obtained 
an adequate revenge on the Scorcher ? Again, he asked himself 
whether Susie would hear his name, see the reports of his 
speeches, and recognise his daring with a thrill of pride ? Would 
she? Chks! he was beaten. Beaten. Susie would never 
hear, or, if she did — Gawd! what a crew of shufflers to lead. 
What a jelly-like, quivering brand of humanity. He could 
make men as fine out of a little cement and water. Dummies, 
dummies every one — as pulseless and invertebrate as a worm. 

John Burns, Ben Tillett, Tom Mann — a score of men he 


FINEM RESPICE 


305 


knew had climbed to fame over the bent backs of the starving 
strikers; so he argued bending over the fire. Why could not 
he do the same? They had been successful; why then was it 
impossible for him to win success? 

He sat in the light of a dying day, glaring hungrily into the 
past; searching amidst the tangled skein of a life more than 
half spent, for the cause of his failure — for the reason of that 
unsuccess which had recently so horribly dogged him. In the 
North he had moved forward without pause. He had been 
immune from the disasters so common to men of his calling. 
He had made money and the fair sex had looked upon him 
with smiling eyes; he had known love. 

His success continued when again he came to the Thames. 
He was skipper, and, for a time, was lucky in his ventures. 
He still made money: now his money was gone; he was without 
employment; he had lost Susie. Never before had he loved; 
now he loved but could not gain his love. His friends, the 
agitators, men of standing, men of position and assured income, 
men who had egged him on, stood aside. They flouted him 
openly and attributed the disasters through which they moved 
to his foolhardy bravado, to his unconsidered action. His! 
The knowledge shook him. The failure was his — it was 
appalling. He could not fathom it — dogged, shadowed — 
devilish! It was — what was it? Luck? Fate? What was 
it? 

The questions leaped again in his brain and he set himself 
to search the incidents minutely from the beginning. The night 
in the Gat rose before him. The voice, the sheeny and tran- 
sient moonlight, flickering, dazzling. Chks! He had no need 
for search. He told himself, leaning forward and watching 
the shadows, that he knew precisely what was wrong. There, 
at his right hand stood the cause of all his futile struggles. 


3o6 


THE ISSUE 


Always it was present. Forever it jogged the wires, sounded 
alarms, whispered in his ears — intangible, inexplicable — the 
Curse of the Gat. 

He rose unsteadily from his seat and glancing about the still 
room searched amidst the cups for rum — for his courage. 
Then, as he poured the spirit into a glass, a chill blast swept 
in from the street and he knew the door was opening. He 
turned to look. His wife entered. She moved over and sat on 
the horsehair sofa. Saunderson watched her, and tossing off the 
rum, growled: ‘‘Lumme! why can’t you speak? Why are 
you crawlin’ round like a sick snake ? You give a man the fair 
hump.” 

Mrs. Saunderson sighed; she replied in a broken voice: “I 
did not mean to startle you. I wish I could help you more than 
I do.” 

He stared at her through bloodshot eyes. An idea took 
him and he cried out: “You can. Sit down there. No — no 
lights. I want to speak. On your answer depends my future 
— D’you take on?” 

“ Oh Jim! Come away from this place — come away. Never 
mind anything, only come away and let us start life afresh.” 

“ Wiv you ? ” he questioned brutally. “ Stow it.” 

She seemed not to hear, and continued: “There is a dense 
fog again — black and grim as the misery that is on the people. 
The strike has broken down. Men are going back to work 
and others are being found to take the places of those who won’t 
return.” 

Saunderson snorted angrily: “The cursed blacklegs!” 

She took no heed but extended her arms with an appealing 
gesture. “Come with me, Jim. Now when everything else 
has failed, I ask you to come back with me to Cornwall. 
There’s father’s little farm. We can work it. Dear! look 


FINEM RESPICE 


307 


kindly, forget your troubles, and I will forget all that has 
been.” 

Saunderson sat gloomily silent, gazing at the small fire 
whereon a kettle sang, the only cheerful note in all that sombre 
room. His wife crossed over and kneeled beside him. 

“ Jim,” she whispered, what are you thinking of ? Is it the 
old house, where I was a girl, and you came to show me what 
love is ? Do you remember the lovely grassy slopes — the woods 
where we so often rested; the woods, where you took me in your 
arms and called me your pretty Lily — your gentle, white Lily ? 
Do you remember how angry father was when he found I had 
been there with you, and how we laughed at him and you said 
you loved me and wanted to be married to-morrow. Do you 
remember it all? Dear, come back to it! Come back with 
me and let us forget all the misery we have gone through.” 

Saunderson scarcely heard. In thought he had been stroll- 
ing down the sea-wall at Abbeyville, where, one night, two 
months ago, he had met Susie and caught her to him as she 
promised to be his. His blood flamed at the recollection. A 
sentence fell on his ears — could he go back to Cornwall — to the 
little farm, and rest with his wife? Could he? Could he 
return to this while the possibility of gaining Susie still lay 
before him? Scarcely. Yet, it should be as he had said. 
He would tell her his trouble — his fear, and let her decide. 
Then if she too admitted the power of the curse, he recognised 
that it would be useless to continue fighting; he would go away 
and have done with it. He turned quickly and found his wife’s 
arm about him. He shook her off, speaking roughly: “On 
you depends what follows. Sit down. I can’t talk free wiv 
you clawin’ round my neck: Sit down.” 

She sprang from her knees and settled in another chair. 
She was stung to the quick by his brutal repulsion. “ Go on ! ” 


THE ISSUE 


30S 

she cried with a queer, hard laugh. “Don’t spare me. My 
feelings need not concern you.” 

Saunderson, engrossed with his own inexplicable doubts, 
continued without perceiving what a shock his words had 
caused. He said: “When I came round into the Thames 
eight months ago, a queer thing happened to me. We got 
becalmed in the Deeps — nigh to Fisherman’s Gat, an’ had to 
down mud-hook or drive ashore. So we anchored.” 

He spoke with the air of a baffled man, searching amidst a 
life crammed with incidents for the particular key he required; 
he fell again into the river argot, his rich bass voice filling the 
room: “It’s not a nice place to be kickin’ about in. The 
tide runs bad. There’s sands almost all round you, an’ — 
Micky Doolan, he’s been tellin’ me of the — curse — an’ run of 
luck that followed the Flying Cloud after she came under it. 
But, there’s no wind, an’ we’re not a steamboat, so we’ve got 
to lie an’ chance it. We lay — an’ chanced it. 

“Then comes a thunder squall, rippin’ an’ tearin’ everything 
that’s loose from its hold — an’ the Bluebell breaks her sheer — an’ 
drifts — slow as flames, she drifts — across to the Gat. Did she 
touch? Aye, she did touch: for how long? For three mortal 
hours. Chks! is there any luck to come out of a deal like 
that?” 

Saunderson leaned forward with his face in his hands. The 
subject fascinated him. He saw the scenes of which he spoke; 
marked their inevitable movement; the gradual absorption of 
self in greater issues unrolling somewhere — somewhere — far 
away, remote, out of the ken of men lacking knowledge. He 
rubbed his brow and continued: 

“Afterward, we floated. Then, while I’m sittin’ on the 
companion, ^he stroke of eight bells comes across the Deeps 
from a steamer goin’ north. I turned to look. There’s a 


FINEM RESPICE 


309 


queer kind of sheen bangin’ across the path of the Gat — close 
to loo’ard of wheer we’re anchored. I don’t mind cornin’ 
across that sheen any wheer bar the Gat. I don’t mind it — an’ 
Micky Doolan, he don’t mind it either. Ya-as — it was curious 
— curious. I got up — an’ stood watchin’. The steamer dies 
away in the haze — an’ — ” He paused, to examine the shad- 
ows near the fender, then taking up his glass he tossed off 
the remaining spirit and resumed: 

“ An’ while I’m lookin’ — somethin’ happened. What was it ? 
Some one singing out — a queer cry: what could it be ? A chap 
fallen from yonder silent death ? It’s all likely — yaas, it’s all 
likely. 

“What did I do? What would any man do? I took the 
boat an’ scullied seaward. I pulled a mile — maybe two. 
There’s a dark patch further out. I sculled some more — an’ 
came down to it. There’s nothin’ there bar a water sodden 
hatch, covered with grass an’ slime — green — loaded wiv barn- 
acles. Been there for ages. An’ out seaward there’s the glint 
of the Gat, an’ the — the ” 

Again Saunderson sank into silence, and sitting with his 
chin resting in his hands, gazed steadfastly into the glowing 
embers. He seemed to have entirely forgotten the presence of 
his wife, sitting also silent, and watching him with a new-born 
anger gleaming in her eyes. His voice rose in a growling 
monotone, as though in answer to some spoken question: 
“What did I do? What would anyone do? I came back 
aboard — an’ there’s Micky Doolan waitin’ fer me. ‘It’s the 
Curse, Skipper; he says, ‘the Curse of the Gat, an’ you’re come 
under it.’ That’s what he says; but,” he shouted savagely, 
waving his clenched fist; “that mate ain’t judge an’ jury; he’s 
not omnipotent, as you might say, although — yaas — I know — 
I know ” 


THE ISSUE 


310 

He stopped speaking, and drawing his chair nearer the fire, 
sat moodily staring into the flames. His wife watched him 
unmoved. He resumed after a lengthy silence, in muttering, 
broken sentences. 

“The voyage ended bad; I know it. Coin’ up Sea Reach, 
we get run down by a drunken collier, an’ one of the chaps is 
drowned. Bill Jeffries it was — a good chap. A chap wiv a 
wife an’ four chidren — all left to stawve by Dunscombe. Fair, 
ain’t it? As though Bill Jeffries had anything to do wiv it. 
Yaas, it’s — fair — fair as flames. 

“Then comes the Stormy Petrel do: A derelict in the Gat, 
you mind, an’ Elliott’s bent on gettin’ hold of her. We got 
hold of her — yaas, oh yaas, we got hold of her; but there’s a 
row first. Then Dunscombe’s killed — an’ — an’ you’re come 
back. Eh? Shhhl Who in flames is that ? ” 

He rose from his seat and with the unsteady gait of one on 
the verge of sleep, crept noiselessly to the door and flung it 
wide. 

The fog steamed silently in, filling the room with moisture. 
He stood peering into the murk and growling savagely: “Who’s 
there ? Who’s there ? ” 

His wife’s voice fell on his ears speaking in hard, ringing 
tones; with disdain. “ Shut the door, Jim. Really you haven’t 
the nerve of a cat.” 

Saunderson turned and looked at her. “Lumme!” he 
growled; “I’d almost forgot you’re there.” 

“So it seems.” 

He moved over threateningly. “What d’you mean?” he 
cried. 

“You were asking me to decide a question for you,” she 
evaded; “a rather momentous question.” 

Saunderson regarded her passive attitude with annoyance. 


FINEM RESPICE 


311 

He crossed the room, found the bottle of rum, and, leaning 
against the door, took a lengthy pull. “Yes,” he said, “I did. 
IPs this. You’re better educated than me — you maybe know. 
It’s this. Can a curse spoke scores of years ago — work harm 
on them — as has had the misfortune — aye! for that’s what it 
was, as Gawd made me — to cross the path of it ? Answer me 
that an’ I’m done.” 

“I don’t believe in such things.” 

He leaped upright, calling out in fierce agitation: “Eh! 
Lumme, that’s the best word you’ve given me yet. You don’t 
believe it possible?” 

“No.” 

“Nor other folk?” 

“Only ignorant people.” 

“Then you can’t damn a man — body an’ soul — for years on 
end?” 

She replied with a shudder he could not see in the dim-lit 
room: “Men are more frequently damned by their past lives. 
By the trouble they bring on themselves, by their own wicked 
actions.” 

“What in flames d’ye mean?” 

He stood up scowling with rage. His wife rose to confront 
him. She spoke without a tremor: “Don’t be foolish, Jim. 
Learn to control yourself or drink less. The spirit is too much 
for your head.” 

She answered so coolly, with such a hard, metallic ring in 
her voice, that Saunderson could only stare in amazement. 

Was this the terror-struck wife he had spurned? Was this 
the lachrymose woman he had bullied and who had never dared 
to retaliate? Scarcely. Chks! what was in the wind now? He 
waited in silence for further speech. She watched him with 
anger-laden eyes, yet her voice quivered. “I came here and 


312 


THE ISSUE 


found you in trouble. I nursed you through your illness — for 
you were poor. I found you money. I slaved for you. I bore 
silently every reproach, thinking you might grow kinder — 
that your love would come back. I bore your brutal passions, 
your violence; I bore all — hoping you would see I had no 
malice, no thought of the past; and now — I ask you to come 
away from this misery, and you turn on me like a tiger — like 
the wild beast that you are — like a savage.” 

Her voice fell into a sneering key: “My arms are claws, are 
they? Very well: find softer. I am lean and scraggy, am 
I? Very well: find plumpness. I shall trouble you no more 
with my caresses. I am going — home.” 

She passed quietly to the door, opened it, and let herself out ; 
but Saunderson took no heed. Already he was immersed in 
thought, steeped to the ears in a new picture that had unfolded 
before him. His courage had returned. Like a spring long 
sealed and dammed by frost it broke forth at the first touch 
of sun and overwhelmed him. Fear of the unseen no longer 
throbbed at his vitals.. For the moment it was gone, and he 
was sane — sane and free from dread. She knew. Aye! she 
knew! He grew bold as he recollected her sneering laugh. 
Curses! Ghosts! they were not — never had been. He swore 
it, facing the fire: glaring hungrily at the image he saw there — 
of Susie; Susie with the golden hair and gentle speech. God! 
if it could have been — if it could have been! If he had 
known 

He sat a long while brooding and in silence over this thought. 
The room was very dim. The kettle had ceased to sing, the 
fire was dying slowly. The untrimmed lamp burned low with 
a gurgling noise in its throat. Very still, very sombre was the 
night. 

A footstep thumped the pavement outside, and he glanced 


FINEM RESPICE 


313 


up. It drew near, halted at the door, and a postman’s knock 
echoed in the silence. He rose and opened. 

“A letter and a telegram.” said the man. ‘‘The wire 
wouldn’t have come sooner by messenger.” 

Saunderson received the information and his correspondence 
without a sign. “Right,” he said; “have a drink?” 

“ Can’t stop, Cap’n. Big round just begun. Night’s play- 
ing the dooce with the patrols.” 

Saunderson closed the door and sat down to examine his 
letter. It came from a friend — a barge owner in a small 
way — who offered him the command of his second vessel. 
The telegram was concise; it ran thus: 

“Black George sails to-morrow day tide. 

“Snuffles, Mate, Limehouse.” 

So — to-morrow, day-tide. Toward dusk, then, the Reindeer 
might be expected off Riverton. Saunderson’s vision had 
fallen from that new thought. The telegram occupied him. 

Sutcliffe had been appointed temporarily to the Reindeer. 
He was a blackleg — one of those who stood in the path of his 
leader’s advancement; one of those of whom it had been de- 
cided to make an example. He was a man who happened also 
to be his leader’s personal enemy, a man who had cheated him 
of his hardly earned gold; a man of whom he had spoken to 
his wife in terms of the plainest meaning. Chks! His wife — 
where was she? Would she return? Would she see? And 
if she did ? What then ? 

Late that night Saunderson quitted finally the lonely cottage 
and betook himself to a meeting of those stalwart Regenerators 
of the Masses who still held rosy visions of winning the strike. 
It was the last time he met them ; the last time he ever put foot 
to the floor of the home wherein his wife had nursed him back 
to strength. 


CHAPTER V 


Snuffles 


BOAT lay idly beside the Garter Pier and for two hours 



a man had appeared to doze in her stern sheets with 
his head wrapped in the folds of a heavy coat. But during 
all that period he had watched the swollen river running 
muddily seaward; watched the fading daylight, the swirling 
tide, the dwindling distance, the growing, snake-like causeway. 

Far out into the dim river it meandered like a giant centipede, 
shining with the gleam of slime and ooze. It held between its 
crooked legs the trailing refuse of the towns, straw, sticks, rags, 
tin cans; making with them little whirlpools of eddying scum, 
stirring the muddy depths; ruffling the surface with moving 
beads of foam. 

Beyond the causeway the tide swept downward, pulseless, 
inert, but very swift It roared past the mooring buoys and 
they twisted and rolled back upon tightened cables like giants 
in pain. It hissed past the hulks moored so thickly in mid 
stream, carrying seaward the garbarge from their decks, the 
groans of the cables, and the shouts of their crews. It heard the 
jumbled roar of cranes swinging coal, of winches clattering, 
of ice churned and pulverised in the shoots of the fish carriers — 
noises like groans, noises like sighs, with a note of despair, of 
hope, bouyant, boastful, inextricably tangled — tangled as are 
the lives of men. 

Above the causeway there towered the high sea-wall ; a thing 
of mud and clay, impossible as a promenade, picturesque and 


SNUFFLES 


315 


very English, as a sticky means of communication with the 
down-river Forts. Beside it stood the Garter Pier Hotel, 
lonely, isolated, staring at the hospital, as the hospital again 
stared at the fort. Nothing else, only the marshes, the ditches, 
a far-off range of hills, and the steaming marshland breath. 
It curled white over the farther fields at sunset. Gates stood 
up in it. A mill appeared in the middle distance floating and 
without a base, its wings revolving with the inflexible purpose 
of all driven things. Reeds stood up in it, swaying heavy heads, 
wet, shining. Then the mist marched forth. It surged about 
the distant landmarks, mounted the sea-wall, and flowing 
stealthily north met a companion mist creeping from compan- 
ion marshes, unseen down there where the centipede pier 
pointed a crooked finger over the river. And, as if the mist 
had been the signal for which he waited, the man in the boat 
uncovered his head and looked about without concern. He 
stood up. Saunderson’s heavy frame loomed hugely in the 
haze. Very big and silent he appeared as he paused there 
shading his eyes and staring into the blur of masts, still 
shadowed against the smoke and fog of the upper Reach. 

He moved from the boat and the frail craft shivered; the 
bubbles floated seaward in shoals. The pier held him; its 
straggly legs trembled under his march; the planks quivered. 
He passed up the steps where a board like a sign announced 
the fact of the causeway’s extreme length, and the Garter Pier 
hotel opened its maw and swallowed him. 

Later, he came out accompanied by two stalwarts: two of 
those who owed a grudge to the turn of events; who believed, 
with Saunderson, in the inevitable mastery of the Cause. And 
creeping over the slimy centipede, the trio came to the boat. 
The boat took them in; she marked the fact by sinking some 
further inches, by gripping the tide, by the absence of irres- 


3i6 


THE ISSUE 


ponsible movement. Henceforth the man was her master and 
she slid forth, obedient, willing to be coaxed, cajoled, ordered 
by him sitting in the stern, by Saunderson, the man of destiny 
no longer troubled visibly by the shadows of a tortured 
mind. 

He commanded now the boat of one of the river pickets. 
They moved out through the steaming mist, crept past shadowy 
hulks, and noted the roar of the tide under the bows of a bluff 
merchantman of the Ballarat days. They swept on, angling 
to pass the buoys, slow* against the tide, swiftly with it; always 
enveloped in shadow, always silent, until they had obtained an 
offing, and could move at leisure. 

Across the water lay a police launch, snugly moored under 
the stern of a hulk ; but the trio no longer feared her espionage — 
she was asleep, hidden in the dusk and smother of night. 
Riverton, with its silent wharves and deserted factories, was 
asleep also in that smother. Official Riverton, which had done 
its duty, bragged now in the clubs and drawing rooms of its 
prowess. The back of the strike was broken. The beggar 
crowd was beaten. Starvation was the one medicine it under- 
stood — starvation, the panacea of Capital when dealing with 
Labour; backed perhaps with a touch of the spur if the crowd 
became intractable — starvation had won. But official Riverton, 
gloating over its triumphs, gloating over the verve of the new 
men imported to keep the machines humming, to keep the 
bank accounts on the upward trend, forgot what the police had 
also forgotten; that in times of dissension between masters 
and men, two forces often come into being — the opportunity 
of revenge; the chance of paying off private scores under the 
banner of the fight. 

Ostensibly the picket’s boat moved out to seek the Reindeer 
because she was one of the Scorcher’s vessels and was manned 


SNUFFLES 


317 


by blacklegs. In reality Saunderson’s grudge against Sutcliffe 
was at the bottom of the whole business. 

Had it not been for Saunderson, no pickets would have ven- 
tured out that night ; but he found men whose hearts were dead 
and whose shoulders writhed under the blows of fate; he found 

them, nursed them, helped them out of the till of the Cause, 
and they accompanied him, believing in him, swearing by him. 
They could do no more. 

The boat came round in answer to a touch of the rudder; 

then, paddling easily, they lay full in the track of downward 
vessels. The tide was at half ebb, the river crowded with 
barges floating lazily with boomed out sails and flapping jibs. 
Now and again a steamer came swiftly out of the haze and left 
them wallowing in her swell; then, as darkness grew, little 
gleaming eyes, red, green, white, sprang into being, marking 
the driving shipping. The wheezy fog-horns redoubled their 
cries; the weird shrieks of hidden sirens filled the night with 
jets of sound. 

Still the boat with its silent occupants moved stealthily zigzag 
on the face of the waters. Several black-sailed Burmah-men, 
with Invicta painted on the luff of their mainsails, passed like 
wraiths in the darkness. These sail at all times; nothing short 
of collision or dismasting stops them; but the Reindeer was not 
there. A snorting collier lashing the foam with her half- 
merged screw, steered wildly into the void, waking the echoes 
with an unholy scream. Barges followed. In groups, singly, 
in pairs, lashed together, they passed onward, but none showed 
the signal which “Snuffles, Mate, Limehouse,” had arranged. 

The boat drove onward carrying her dogged crew. They 
listened to the clank of chains and heard the swish of the leather 
scoop and the shout of a skipper, under Coalhouse, digging for 
sand. They passed a buoy winking a dim challenge to dis- 


THE ISSUE 


318 

aster on the point — a death trap of the river this — and swept 
onward, rowing sometimes to search a vessel, sometimes 
driving idly with oars alert to move; never answering a hail, 
nor taking a tow until the tide was spent and they were some- 
where off Thames Haven. 

A gloomy outlook on any dark night in all truth; but with 
the haze in their eyes, the raw air down their throats, and the 
profound and unspeakable solitude of the open river to point 
their misery, their lot was sufficiently desperate to atone for the 
clamour they raised when the World’s End Tavern stood at 
hand. But Saunderson was obdurate. Nothing could shake 
the grim tenacity with which he fastened on a scheme when 
once it was planned. He moved from his seat, fumbled in the 
stern sheets and produced a bottle of rum. The men passed 
it from hand to hand, descanting on their chief’s sagacity; then 
lay back to wait for the flood. 

When this came, they started once more to sweep the Reach 
toward Riverton. They moved methodically, from point to 
point; they no longer “drove” with the tide, but steered accur- 
ately for those anchorages where downward barges might be 
found at rest. 

They searched about the paraffin jetty, off West Blyth, 
under Hope Point, across the river, below the powder maga- 
zine, but the Reindeer remained unfound. The crew became 
weary. They growled together, arguing the possibilities; 
“ Have we missed her ?. . . Surelie she’s got this far. . . 

Looks as though she haven’t . . . Steady! there’s a crawft 

over there — pull port oar! What’s that on the skirt of the tide 
— under Coal’us?” 

“Wot is it? It’s three lights, an’ the middle ’un’s green.” 

“Chks! it’s the Reindeer. Go easy — no bloomin’ larks! 
Snuffles has done ’is bit.” 


SNUFFLES 


319 


They moved swiftly forward and in five minutes had brought 
to under the Reindeer's bow. Saunderson crawled aft. The 
mate met him in the shadow of the mainsail. “’Ad a doin’? 
he questioned. Saunderson brushed trivialities aside; he said: 

“All right by your lights, I see.” 

“ Yaas; — but old George ain’t ’ere.” 

“Oh! how’s that?” 

“ Done a ^olt: ’ow could I odds it ? Some bloomin’ female 
come ’er ’anky-panky on ’im, an’ ’ee cleared.” 

Saunderson stood very still; he eyed Snuffles up and down. 
“What sort of female?” he questioned. 

“Tall, dawk eyes, fluffity ’air.” 

“Ah” Saunderson clutched at his neckerchief, fighting the 
leaping words — tall, dark, fluffity hair! Again he saw them; 
again that frowsy picture of a gaunt, unhappy woman swam 
before his eyes. He turned suddenly on the mate: “Get your 
lights in.” Then, after a pause: — “Who’s here?” 

“Tom Boosy.” 

“Did — did she tackle him?” 

“Ya-as; but Tom’s wife’s stawvin’ an’ ’ee says, t’Hell 
wi the pickets: blackleg or no blackleg, I’m goin’,’ an’ ’ee 
come.” 

“ Right ! You keep handy — an’ don’t let the chaps on board. 
Tom Boosy ’ll do as well as another to — skear ’em. They’re 
all blacklegs; we’ll teach ’em ” 

He went forward, climbed through the hatch, and passed 
into the hold. The mate stood on guard above the cabin 
scuttle. 

The voices of the night sobbed eerily high up about the 
hounds of the mast. The river swirled and eddied moving 
Londonward. Drops of moisture fell pattering to the deck 
from the canvass fluttering in the breeze. Once or twice a 


320 


THE ISSUE 


grinding squeal echoed in the stillness; then Saunderson 
emerged sweating from the hold. The mate crossed to meet 
him. “Wot abaht ’im dahn aft?” he questioned. 

“What about him?” Saunderson echoed. “Get you into 
the boat.” 

Snuffles argued: “Why — you ain’t fer leavin’ ’im — are 
you ? ” 

“Why not? He’s a blackleg, ain’t he? Let him get out 
as he likes. He’s got his boat — what more do you expect me 
to do for him?” 

“It’s murder,” said the mate, “or precious nigh to’t — an’ 
I ain’t goin’ to ’ave no ’and in that.” 

Saunderson swore. He urged under his breath: “ He has his 
boat — he has his boat; she won’t go in a minute. Get you 
into mine.” 

The mate objected still. He shook his head, saying: “I’m 
not on. I’ll go an’ ca’ ’im.” 

Again a savage oath rang out as Saunderson saw confronting 
him the thwarting influence, the intentional hindrance that 
baflfled him always. His anger took shape as the mate turned 
nonchalantly, insolently, to go aft, and he moved behind and 
struck him heavily under the ear. “Lie down, dawg!” he 
growled. “Do as you’re bid.” 

Snuffles lay down and Saunderson hastened to the boat. He 
spoke with a snarl. “Cast ofi"!” he cried. “She’s got her 
belly full — out of it.” 

The stalwarts stood up to receive him: “Wheer’s Snuffles?” 
they questioned. 

“Stayin’ to get the skipper into the boat.” 

“Right! We don’t want to be seen — shove off.” 

They moved out into the darkness and the darkness covered 
them. 


SNUFFLES 


321 


Like a blanket it shrouded their actions, hid their passage, 
and masked the stirring waters until Riverton stole out of the 
gloom to give them welcome. 

But Saunderson had forgotten that Snuffles, too, had been 
one of those who manned the Bluebell that night in the Gat. 


I 





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Part m 

Clje KeD Gauntlet 


CHAPTER I 


A WoAiAN Passes 


IGHT had fallen. A chill winter’s night with the wind 



^ moaning fitfully through the tall spars and soot-black 
rigging of a cluster of barges lying within Limehouse 
basin. Long ago they had hauled down, sailed or towed down ; 
now they waited for the dock gates to open — waited in readiness 
to spread their wings and pass out among the lights, the tugs, 
the steamers, thronging the crowded Reach which was their 


home. 


Among them, lying gunwale to gunwale with several dumb 
barges* was the Red Gauntlet, a powerful Essexman com- 
manded by the whilom leader of the Riverton strike. Their 
crews were still ashore, taking a final drink at a bar not far 
distant; but Saunderson had not joined them. He moved 
under a shadow The strike had failed — ^he had pinned his 
faith upon success. It was dead — dead at the hands of men who 
should have kept it alive. He had no desire for their company. 
The hope kindled, momentarily, by his wife’s words, was dead 
also. He had lost trust in all judgment save his own, and his 
own he doubted. He argued that there were some things no 

♦Barges having no masts — propelled by oars. 


324 


THE ISSUE 


one can understand. He hobbled amidst scenes requiring the 
assistance of a well-balanced brain, and full mental equipment. 
He hobbled as a man armed with a crutch hobbles in a race. 
He had lost. He recognised it, but, as a handicap, he recog- 
nised there must be a reason. 

He sat in the companion smoking moodily, his mind bent on 
the efforts which had failed. He searched his actions but found 
no guile in anything he had done. He worked on a skein ex- 
ceedingly difficult to disentangle; twisting, passing, dipping; 
all in the process of exculpation — self-exculpation. He saw 
nothing abhorrent in his course; nothing wanton. It was the 
outcome of life, of circumstance. He knew of no discipline 
but the discipline of brute force ; knew of no influence, human 
or divine; had never learned the necessity for self-control and 
restraint. These things were not taught in the schools through 
which he graduated. The Act passes them by. The “pay- 
ment by result” system, has no use for them. Teachers wish- 
ing to protest, conscientiously, against the inclusion of Doctrine, 
are allowed to protest. They receive absolution at the hands 
of a new Pope — a multifarious concern with many heads, much 
given to the wagging of tongues across the floor of a House 
where all alike are irresponsible. The scholars are held up 
like toast on a fork, to see if they are done; then passed over to 
the table of life with a smirk of satisfaction. The exponent of 
the Rights of Man shouts his grievance in the courts, in the park ; 
and the papers, pandering for pennies and halfpennies, acclaim 
him Martyr — “God’s in His Heaven, all’s right with the world.” 

Saunderson saw many things as he sat there smoking and 
troubled by the grievous inequality of wealth; but he saw them 
through spectacles so blurred, so out of focus, that only a dis- 
torted picture was possible. A moral squint, a mental twist, 
was the result. He it was who suffered. He it was who was 


A WOMAN PASSES 


325 


misunderstood, maligned, laughed at. If he had learned how — 
if Susie had been near to aid him — if the Bluebell had never 
come under the curse, supposing always that a curse was a thing 
tangibly possible. Chks! the might-have-beens stretched out 
into the distance like a herd of jackals, all clamouring for food 
while he stood watching with an empty sack. 

A voice rolled out of the silence as he sat there staring into 
the past, searching the future. He listened intently. The 
cry sounded again — a commonplace hail: ^^Red Gauntlet 
ahoyl’^ 

He rose to shout, Hello!” and the answer came back to him. 

‘‘Bring yer boat to the steps. There’s some one awskin’ 
fer you.” 

He considered the matter but a moment. He saw himself 
in the midst of an appalling trend of circumstances, yet had 
nothing to urge why he should not go ashore to answer the 
summons of a friend. The matter stood concisely in his brain. 
Any action he might take could not alter his future. The end 
was fixed, immutable, perhaps implacable — a matter arranged 
by powers of which he had no conception. For some reason 
they were antagonistic to his advancement; to his movement up 
that ladder he had set himself to climb. It was useless to argue ; 
useless to contend; he was weary of the whole business — un- 
utterably weary. 

He stepped into the boat, sculled ashore, and ascending the 
steps stood looking for signs of a visitor. No one appeared. 
Far up the quay a man walked; farther still, puppets worked 
in the docks, puppets who shouted, hurrying like driven dogs, 
struggling in the light of glaring arc lamps to earn their mead 
of paltry shillings. They deserved their fate. He argued 
that they should have joined issue with him; then would they 
have been masters and not slaves. Near at hand was silence. 


326 


THE ISSUE 


The clustered barges rubbed sides like sheep on a cold night. 
Across the way were lonely capstans, a flagstaff; the dock 
gatemen’s cottages. The place seemed utterly vacant. 
Saunderson growled angrily. He turned to retrace his foot- 
steps, then a soft voice, calling from a dark angle of the shed, 
whispered his name. 

He recognised the tones instantly and twisted about with 
sudden passion. It was a woman’s voice — the voice of his 
wife. 

“You!” he cried approaching. “What d’you want wiv me 
now?” 

She held up her hands whispering: “I have come to warn 
you. I have come to warn you.” 

“To warn me? How much more of your foolin’ d’you ex- 
pect me to stand?” he shouted the questions angrily, and again 
she lifted her hand. 

“Hist 1 Speak quietly. Wait till that man is out of hearing.” 

He stood mute, listening to the failing steps. They died, 
and Mrs. Saunderson resumed: “There’s been an ‘accident’ 
down river,” she whispered; “ and now the has been 

lifted — they find she was scuttled. Who were the men that 
did this, Jim?” 

He glanced about, marking the heavy solitude and his reply 
fell softly under his breath: “I suppose you don’t want me to 
answer that. I suppose you know — else — what ” 

“I do know. God help me, I know too, that — some of her 
crew were drowned — drowned.” 

He swayed unsteadily on the wet stones. A sentence es- 
caped him. “Ah! they were bigger fools than I took them 
for.” Then, after a tense pause: “ An’ you’ll give information ?” 

She looked up with a laugh, imperious, incongruous: “Why 
should I ? Besides, I could not give evidence. Even if I 


A WOMAN PASSES 


327 


could, why should I ? No, I came here to warn you — nothing 
more.” 

Saunderson watched her with a dogged frown. He ques- 
tioned her motives. He could not comprehend them; they 
were a sealed book — Sanscrit. “You ain’t fond of me,” he 
suggested. “Why don’t you fix me off an’ have done wiv it?” 

“Because I loved you, Jim; because you were my lover in 
days long past; because I am your wife and cannot do it.” 

“You expect me to swallow that?” he growled, still watching 
with that set frown. “You think I’m fool enough to take that 
in ? What’s to prevent me chuckin’ you an’ all you know into 
the dock an’ finishin’ the business?” he threw out the sug- 
gestion in bluster and without thought. 

She faced him scornfully. “Your own cowardice, Jim — 
nothing else.” 

“My cowardice!” he shouted, clutching her arm. “Chks! 
you don’t know me. Who’s to hear you; who’s to know I’ve 
put you away down the cellar? It’s dark. There’s no one 
about. How am I to trust you now you know such a thunderin’ 
sight of knowledge ? Eh, answer me that ? ” 

She struggled free and confronted him with passionate eyes: 
“You dare not do it because you are afraid of things unseen. 
You dare not do it because, when I am dead, I shall haunt 
you — you will never be free. Waking or sleeping your coward 
mind will tremble before the memory of the woman you cursed 
with your love, with your life, and your miserable unbelief — do 
you understand?” 

He faced her in silence. 

“ On the river, when it is dark, I shall be at your side as you 
steer your vessel. In your sleep I shall be with you flitting 
unseen; in lonely roads and silent anchorages I shall be near 
you — driving you to the hell you are always talking of. Come 


328 


THE ISSUE 


— exercise your strength. Put me down the cellar. You dare 
not. Pahl big man, you are a coward.” 

Saunderson shrank back. He was appalled by her vehe- 
mence. The sweat stood cold on his brow. He leaned 
against the shed-side without a word in self-defence, without a 
sentence in self-justification. Mrs. Saunderson saw her ad- 
vantage and moved near, speaking very slowly. 

“I came to see and to warn you, because I loved you — once, 
and because I thought you might wish to leave. But now I 
see that you will not do so, that you will continue as you began. 
Stay, the air is prophetic to-night — eh, Jim? You agree? 
Good: then I will prophesy. You see it is so much easier to 
act when one knows what is inevitable — inevitable, mind. You 
can’t shirk fate. You can’t get rid of the consequences of 
your wicked actions. They follow you. That is why men 
call them the inevitable. You know what that American says? 
No? Well, I’ll tell you: 

“ ‘If wrong you do, if false you play 
In summer among the flowers, 

You must atone, you shall repay. 

In winter among the showers.’ ” 

She broke off and for a moment appeared to meditate de- 
parture, then with a swift turn drew nearer, lifting one finger. 

“Listen,” she said, “you will win that girl you think you 
love so well — you will win her and you will die. But you will 
win her first. What matters what comes afterward or how 
soon? Death! What is death if you have had what you have 
sought so long — eh, Jim?” 

Again she broke off with that abrupt laugh he found so 
appalling, and took a step again in his direction. 

“But many things will happen before that — so take heart, 
big man. I shall not be here to annoy you with my love. I 


A WOMAN PASSES 


329 


shall not be here to hinder you. Why? Listen, I will tell 
you.” 

She leaned forward gazing into his downcast face. 

“Jim,” she whispered close in his ear, “I am going on a long 
journey to-night. I shall never see you again.” 

He started backward uncertain of her meaning. 

“Do you remember how you left me last time?” she ques- 
tioned in a new tone, the banter gone. “ Do you ? There was 
a child then. It died, Jim. I was glad it died, because I was 
alone and miserable. Now there would be a child again. But 
I do not wish to see it. I can never want to see children again. 
So I am going away — and you will be free to run your course 
alone. Will you say good-bye ? Will you wish me luck on my 
journey ? It isn’t much to ask ; but the road is difficult. Wish 
me luck, Jim, for the sake of what has been.” 

She faced him, holding out her hand; but the pleading 
intonation had done its work. He no longer feared. He drew 
away with an oath. 

“Luck!” he shouted almost fiercely. “Why should I wish 
you luck? You’ve been my curse — You’ve been my curse. 
I wish to Gawd I’d never set eyes on you.” He advanced 
toward her with a gesture so menacing that, holding high 
her hand, she retreated slowly toward the dock-sill. 

“Push me!” she cried in bitter sarcasm. “We are alone, 
big man. It will save that girl you think you love, for then, 
Jim, you will have killed your wife and unborn child.” 

Again he sprang back and remained watching. “You’ve 
been my curse — my curse!” he reiterated. 

“Passion is your curse,” she mouthed. “Psh! I fancy you 
understand.” 

Saunderson stood in the shadow of a shed. He noticed the 
lamplight dancing in the pavement pools and saw that the 


330 


THE ISSUE 


water rilled up the stones. In one place oil had fallen. Here 
the water bore no sign of movement, but it threw a slimy stain 
upon the concrete, like the track of snails, slugs, worms. He 
lifted his gaze and saw that he was alone. 

Far up the path a figure moved. 

He might have pursued this woman, beaten her, thrown her 
into the dock, or done any of the hundred and one things his 
superior strength permitted; but he did not do so. He re- 
turned to the barge instead. There was rum in the locker. 
His courage ebbed. It was of the sort that requires the aid of 
stimulants. 

He slunk into the narrow cabin like a whipped cur and made 
for the liquor. Hah! A draught revived him. He lighted 
his pipe and took a seat on the companion stairs. The clock 
at the dock-head struck the hour — twelve sonorous strokes, 
and silence ensued. The dying fire cracked and fell in with a 
crash. 

Saunderson rose from his seat and approached the stove. 
He kicked it, growling furtively of the noise, and the cinders 
leaped into a blaze. He examined the cabin; it was narrow, 
stifling. He was alone. Nothing moved. He decided that 
he required air — air and freedom to think. He crept to the 
stair-head and stood leaning over the half-drawn scuttle. 

The night was black now, with a misty misery of thin, cold 
fain. The nearer electric lights loomed in sullen splotches, 
blinking like giant cats in the stagnant air. The wind sobbed 
eerily through the rigging towering so high into nothingness; 
everywhere were voices, everywhere shadows — shadows that 
moved, gesticulated, spoke. Reiterating the words he had 
heard, “You will win that girl you think you love — you 
will win her,” he asked himself how that could be possible 
while his wife lived, and a further sentence leaped in the gray 


A WOMAN PASSES 


331 


water scintillating under the lamp — “You will die.’’ Die? 
Of course he would die. He admitted it, gripping hands on 
the edge of the scuttle. All men die once. His end was doubly- 
assured — doubly. He was certain of that. No other certitude 
appeared. He groaned aloud, praying that he had never met 
this woman — that she had died as had been said — that Susie 
had loved him — Susie who could have helped, who could have 
aided him in that climb he desired. “If,” he argued it with 

clenched teeth, “if that woman had ” and stopped with a 

sudden thrill. “Hist! what’s that?” 

He leaped to his feet as a shriek rent the air. The noise of 
splashing water fell on his ears; the shouts of a score of people. 
All the mob from the neighbouring bars was afoot racing to- 
ward the dock gates. He stood in abject terror, his knees 
trembling. Someone had fallen overboard. Someone was 
drowning. Who? He listened intently, clutching at the 
scuttle, and the truth came to him; came in a burst of reve- 
lation, dazzling, blinding, pointing the meaning of her words. 
He sprang from the companion-way, shouting his apprehension 
to the winds: 

“Mates ahoy! Ahoy! Where on Gawd’s earth’s a livin’ 
soul ! Ahoy ! ” Ahoy ! ” 

He climbed the sides of a high dumb barge and looked below. 
It was tenantless. He jumped a watery stretch and landed 
safely on another vessel’s deck, still giving tongue to fear: 
“Ahoy! Ahoy!” 

A growl sounded in a cabin near at hand: “Wot’s wrong? 
Wot’s wrong then?” 

“Is that Tom Chudleigh?” 

“Yaas.” 

“Come an’ swear to me. Man! get your lamp an’ see it’s 
me.” 


332 


THE ISSUE 


‘‘There’s no manner o’ doubt abaht that. Win’bag. Yer 
lungs is proof. Wot’s wrong?” 

Saunderson slid to the barge’s deck and sat down shuddering. 

“Got a drink aboard?” he gasped. “I’m fair dead wiv 
skear. There’s someone fallen into the dock. I couldn’t get 
nigh her. You see me, Tom — ^you see me ? 

“I see you right enough, mate. Take a swill at this.” 

The man’s courage revived at the taste of rum and with the 
knowledge that he was no longer alone. The skipper eyed him 
curiously: 

“We’d best get acrost an’ see if we can do anythin’,” he 
remarked. 

“Aye; I’ll go wiv you. You’ll bear me out where I was 
when it happened.” 

“Right; I’ll bear you out.” 

By the time they had rowed to the steps and come to the 
bridge at the far end of the lock, Saunderson had recovered. 
He strode with a jaunty air. The cries of the people, still 
gathering from the farther shipping, had no terrors for him. 
He hastened, with his friend, and came to the bridge where 
stood a dismal group of men and women, leaning over the dock 
sill. 

A limp bundle of humanity was being lifted from a boat 
which lay beneath. Saunderson pressed forward. He helped 
to clear a space, then kneeled on the stones in search. 

A woman neatly dressed in black; tall, well developed, 
with fluffity, bedraggled hair, rested at his feet — Mrs. Saunder^ 
son, her long journey already ended. 


CHAPTER II 


The Freedom of a Slave 

L ike the wolf when held at bay, so Saunderson stood his 
ground and fought his fight with that grim tenacity of 
purpose which is so characteristic of the Anglo-Saxon race 
when hard beset. 

A glance into this man’s face should have been enough to 
indicate his temperament. The eyes alone were sufl&cient to 
betray him, yet, when he stood to give evidence at the inquest 
on his wife’s body, his rough eloquence so warped the minds 
of twelve good men, that in the end he found himself the re- 
cipient of a sympathetic rider, in addition to the usual finding. 
This was as balm to the man’s soul; and some small compen- 
sation for the harassing period he had endured “since the poor 
Missis had gone under.” 

In this fashion then, the inquest had ended and Saunderson 
still was free. He alone comprehended the importance of the 
fact; and as he strode down the lonely road from Benfleet to 
Thames Haven, the haunting dread of the past few days kept 
him silent company. 

In sullen self-communion he recognised the steady drift of 
circumstance, all tending to hamper his future movements, if 
not his freedom. Sooner or later the incendiarism and other 
“accidents” arising out of the strike would fasten upon him and 
he would be compelled to fight for his life. Again, if these 
matters leaked, how easy it would be to implicate him in still 
darker troubles. At present he revelled in a jury’s sympathy, a 

333 


334 


THE ISSUE 


coroner’s paternal blessing; but if matters fell into another 
groove — if? Rumour lies in ruts like the rain in a furrowed 
roadway, only until some heavier wheel disturbs the channel 
and draws the water in its train. What, he asked himself with 
outspread hands, what if that weightier wheel came down the 
path and left him to drown in the following torrent ? 

The sands were running out. The man’s tether was tighten- 
ing. It gripped about his middle, chafing him, causing him 
trouble at the girth. He saw these things and acknowledged 
his danger, but argued that there must yet remain some glimpse 
of luck; a taste, a sip, to accompany him on that journey which 
now loomed as inevitable in his mind. 

He questioned how was it to end ? By drowning, by strand- 
ing, collision — how? The Flying Scud’s crowd had gone all 
possible ways. The Bluebell’s crew had followed: first the 
man, Jeffries, through absurdly struggling to save a cat, then 
the cook, knocked overboard by a gibing boom, and now 
Snuffles — this last again through an oversight, a monstrous and 
inexplicable reversion of irony — by his own act. And there 
remained Micky Doolan, the boy, and Saunderson himself. 
Micky Doolan, too, who curiously had already survived one 
disaster. It was strange. He could not fathom it. He 
pushed the matter from him and moved resolutely towards the 
Haven. 

The night was shutting down under a heavy pall of cloud 
when he reached the end of his walk. A quarter of a mile dis- 
tant the Red Gauntlet awaited him. Her tall spars and soot- 
black sails stood out against the farther horizon as though 
carved in ebony; the delicate rigging black, taut, like gossamer 
threads on a silver shield. He could see the mate waving an 
answer to his summons, and as he paused there with fear grip- 
ping at his heart, his thoughts took shape. He raised his cap 


THE FREEDOM OF A SLAVE 


335 


and wiping the beads of sweat from his brow, announced his 
intention to start afresh — free from the conditions in which he 
moved, free from the shadows which haunted him now that his 
wife was dead, with tenfold, force. 

The noise made by the boat, as she took the stones, aroused 
him from his brooding. He walked quickly down the 
causeway stepped on board, and sat down to watch their 
progress. The ebb was nearly spent when they reached the 
barge; but there was sufficient wind to enable them to creep 
over the tide, perhaps to reach the outer channels, so Saunder- 
son decided to proceed, and went below. 

The windlass pawls were clinking merrily when he returned 
to the deck and looked out across the darkening waters towards 
Hope Point. He remained a while examining the sky to wind- 
ward, then turning to aid the mate, his eye chanced on a black- 
sailed brig, stealing slowly seaward on the farther shore. It 
was the T antalus^ the vessel once commanded by Sutcliffe. 

In an instant the whole trend of thought was changed. The 
moment he sighted that dark sail-blotch lying against the Ken- 
tish hills, he was a different being; love, jealousy, disappoint- 
ment paramount; caution nowhere. He recapitulated his 
troubles. There was the vessel whose skipper had defrauded 
him of fifty pounds. There, perhaps on her deck, was the 
man who had refused to coerce his daughter, the girl he loved, 
who was his wife. His anger grew. There was the man who 
had gone blacklegging; whom he had tried to catch; who had 
helped to break the back of the strike and bring about its 
leader’s discomfiture. 

Again his thoughts reverted to Susie. His wife’s words rang 
in his ears. She had prophesied concerning his end. “You 
will win her and you will die, but you will win her first.” Was 
this the opportunity of which she spoke? The old man was 


336 


THE ISSUE 


away, Susie alone at Swinfleet — that he knew. It meant but 
a few hours delay. His wife was dead. Susie was his wife. 
He asked himself, dare he lose the time required to fetch her, 
and sat immersed in thought until the heavyfooted mate dis- 
turbed him. 

“Anchor’s short, skipper,” he remarked and stooped to 
overhaul the main sheet. Saunderson rose. They proceeded 
to get under way. 

Darkness closed in upon them as they moved into slack 
water. The lights crept out — white, green, red; a profusion 
of signals, swimming in shadow, curtained in mist, indicative 
of the dangers abounding at the river’s exit. 

The tall, dark sails of the Red Gauntlet shivered in the heavy 
air. She crept onward like a wraith, slowly but with infinite 
certainty, until the Jenkin was at hand and the more turbulent 
waters of the estuary washed her decks. 

A gray, wet morning found them at anchor near the eastern 
entrance to the Swatch, and Saunderson rowing hurriedly to 
Port Victoria. A short journey thence by the early train, took 
him into the country at the back of Swinfleet woods; and again, 
by the same means, at one o’clock he was standing on the Med- 
way terminus with a telegram to swell the coffers of His Maj- 
esty’s postal service. Then out into the thin, white rain; across 
the misty pier; splashing down the sodden ladder, dogged, 
persistent, without any thought but the thought of Susie’s 
beauty; without any desire, but the desire for her presence; 
and so, onward in his boat, sculling over the muddy tide and 
hastening to regain his vessel. 

He had forgotten his dread, the closing in of those forces 
which hemmed him, the death of his wife. He had forgotten 
the scuttling of the barge and the misery of those nights when 
darkness reigned, and in the solitude of his lonely cabin he saw 


THE FREEDOM OF A SLAVE 


337 


himself beckoned invisibly in the path of the curse. He had 
forgotten all. The girl’s bright face and gentle form hovered 
before him in the gray seascape — Susie, his wife, his panacea, 
who would cure him of his anguish. Her laughter rang in his 
ears. Her smiles were smiles for him. He saw nothing else, 
only Susie — Susie with the sweet eyes and prettily rounded form; 
Susie with the golden hair, soft, white hands, and gentle speech. 
She was with him during the slow journey through the rain, as 
she had been with him during the chill night just past. He 
pictured her in his arms once more, and listening to the honeyed 
dreams, his quick brain working out the ways and means, he 
laughed and swore and rowed with the joy of joys ringing in his 
ears; thinking only of the nearness of his happiness, of his 
escape, and all means of tracing him obliterated. 

He was confronted on every hand by the results of his evil 
passions, yet passion held supreme control. He was face to 
face with an ignominious and horrible death by hanging, yet 
the passions which had run so long unchecked held him in 
bondage. He stood on the brink of a precipice from which the 
ground was crumbling, yet hope whispered of certain triumph, 
of the life he would live ‘‘out foreign,” and kept his thoughts 
from dangerous topics until he found himself on board the Red 
Gauntlet. 

The vessel lay at her lonely anchorage precisely as he had 
left her. The mate slept in his bunk and a smoke-black riding 
lamp swinging aloft, stood as a signal to the preoccupation of 
her crew. 


CHAPTER III 


Mrs. Surridge Gives Advice 

F ebruary, a cold, gray dawn staring through the 
cloud-rack far in the southeast; staring at the naked 
trees, the muddy roads, the dripping hedgerows; ting- 
ing the mist with a touch of primrose which fell upon the cottage 
at Swinfleet with a fleeting gleam; then, again a falling, misty 
veil and the steaming earth was gray; the space where the dawn 
had shown, shut in, a thing of the past, gray with time — gray 
as the smoke driving steadily across the woods from distant 
Riverton factories. 

All this without; but within the latticed window, a pretty 
vision all flushed and rumpled with sleep, staring through 
dancing eyes at the grayness — Susie, awakened by the first touch 
of dawn, searching the skies for signs of the weather. 

A soft, steamy morning; very gray, very sad, very English; 
a white-robed figure, very soft, very trim, with laughing eyes 
and glorious hair, but no sadness — greeting the day which 
would see Jack’s return; thanking the sun-god for his gift of 
light. 

No darkness lingered now on her horizon. No hint of tears 
in all that cold, gray dawn. Jack was coming. His letter, 
folded at her bosom, told her with scandalous brevity that to- 
morrow he would be with her. To-morrow? Already it was 
to-day. True some hours, minutes, must elapse; but what of 
that? A bagatelle, a thing to live through with laughter as 
companion. Hours, minutes, trouble, danger — who thought 

338 


MRS. SURRIDGE GIVES ADVICE 


339 


of these at such a time? Not Susie. The parted lips, the 
gleaming eyes, the fleeting dimples, all proclaimed her happi- 
ness. Night was gone. The sun had risen. Her lover was 
coming home. 

And so all through the day, smiling joyously at her aunt^s 
^ droll speeches, flushing crimson at every unexpected sound; 
watching Tom’s exits sty- ward, when at meal times he found the 
English language so unutterably deficient of words, until the 
afternoon began to wane, the mists grew thicker, and it was time 
to go down to the finger post at the end of the village to await 
Jack’s coming. 

A mutiny of all subservient things occured at this. Hat 
pins, usually so pointed, refused to pierce the straw. A jacket, 
generally admitted to be useless unless furnished with two 
arms, appeared in silent protest with one. Buttons, intended 
by confiding makers to be a means of fastening, inexorably 
shook their heads and stayed unfast. An extraordinary and 
mutinous state of affairs until Mrs. Surridge came to the rescue 
and Susie was coaxed and patted into her fractious garments. 

“La, la! there’s a dear,” so ran her aunt’s expostulations, 
“Buttons? Child, your fingers shake like a passel of wag- 
wants.* Sleeves? Your jacket has all the sleeves you want at 
present. Hat pins ? La 1 when I was a gell an’ wanted to pin 
my hat, I pinned my hat an’ not my blessed crown. La! La! 
was ever such a pretty bundle of confusion? Why, Susie, I 
do declare you make me spry again. For two pins I’d come 
myself; but there’s your uncle, child, an’ we must look after 
our men, if we don’t want someone else to do it for us — and 
then — well, there, I’m sure you understand.” 

She caught the girl round the waist and kissed her gleaming 
eyes as Susie leaned there upon her motherly breast. 


*QuakiD5-grasSt 


340 


THE ISSUE 


do, I do,” she whispered. “Auntie, you’re a gem.” 

Mrs. Surridge shook her head and continued her aid un- 
moved. “Maybe,” she remarked after due reflection, “but 
it’s a gem as needs a deal of polishing. A gem that has got 
roughed with work as would have lined a duchess. The 
quality have means of keeping young — powder, cause-meticks, 
an’ such like; but I have only had brown Windsor. Heighoi 
What we all come to! Pretty, am I? Now you get along an’ 
don’t try to addle an old woman’s head with seltimental 
speeches. I’m done, Susie; you’re beginning. I’m wore 
out, stale as a mildewed trotter; you're fresh as paint an’ twice 
as wholesome. There! Get away before I want to keep you 
by me for a model. Get away — there’s a lamb.” 

The evening had shut in and it was quite dark by the time 
Susie reached the lamp set midway between the crossroads 
and paused to await her lover. 

The trees standing sentry beside the pathway shook their 
lean fingers as the soughing wind went past; a scattered fall 
of rain rushed up the valley and the dead leaves swept eddying 
across the road; then silence, the silence which inevitably 
follows in the track of a storm — and in the silence, footsteps 
thumping the sodden way. 

A man came out of the darkness. The lamp at the apex of 
the roads threw a soft glare upon him. He walked with a 
stride; he was tall and wore what appeared to be a slouched 
hat. He came directly toward the lamp. It could be no one 
else — it must be Jack. 

A pretty vision with flushed cheeks and dancing eyes stood 
there in the shadows, beckoning him on. A trim, girlish 
figure all curves and dimples now moving with parted lips and 
heaving breast to meet him. A word stole into the silence — 
a man’s name, breathed softly as a kiss: 


MRS. SURRIDGE GIVES ADVICE 


341 


“Jackr 

And the answer came out to meet her: Susie ! ’’ and again, 
“My Susie !» 

The two met midway on the road’s smooth surface and in a 
moment they were as one; strained breast to breast, lip to lip 
— not two but one, and the agony of the past forgotten. 

A shiver ran through the trees towering there far into the 
night. But the man did not hear it, he had drawn back and 
was looking into the girl’s pale face. “How could I leave you, 
lass?” he questioned. 

“Ohi Jack, how did I let you go?” 

Quick, half-sobbing utterances these, then again a pause, 
heartwrung, timorous, as though the voices of the night, the 
plaint of a sunless land and the swift rustle of the unburied 
leaves were the sounds which entranced them solely. A pause 
the man filled by putting back the tumbled hair, soothing it 
with an unsoft hand, watching the leaping colour with eyes 
that roved in shame; mindful only of that unwise flight of his 
which had fallen so heavily on the girl. ‘‘Susie!” he looked 
wistfully into her eyes,“ How can I put it ? How can I explain ? ” 

“Don’t, darling — only kiss me.” 

was a fool, Susie. I was a fool!” he reiterated. 

“Then there were two of us,” she decided. “Kiss me and 
forget.” 

He drew her to him, crying out passionately: “God love 
you! I can never forget — I can never forget.” 

“Now you are looking grave,” she pleaded with wistful, up- 
turned face. 

“Can you forgive me, Susie?’’ he urged, again holding back 
and watching her clear, dark eyes. 

“Have I ever blamed you, my husband?” 

He caught her in his arms, kissing her vehemently. “No, 


342 


THE ISSUE 


no,” he cried, “you are too good to throw my foolishness in my 
teeth; but the sting isn’t easily wiped out for all that. A man 
must prove himself. Words are like the froth on a glass of 
beer, all bubbles, Susie, all bubbles to be blown away by the 
first puff. A man must act.” 

She reached up and put her arms about his neck. “My 
dear,” she urged, “are you the only one who slipped? Haven’t 
I made mistakes? You remember my letter, dear. I told 
you what had happened. I told you all: can you forgive me 
and still call me your wife?” 

He cried out with a gust of passion: “I came back to call 
you wife. Forgive! God love you, what have I to forgive? 
Nothing. Less than nothing. Your mistake was the result 
of mine, your trouble the result of my pig-headedness. Susie, 
I meant to get across the water, to get somewhere where we 
could be married — and to call you over at once. But my plans 
fell awry. I couldn’t send for you.” 

“Dear, I know it — now I know it. At first ” 

He broke in with a quick note: “Aye; but it all came from 
my false step. I had no right to run — and yet, you remember, 
I had no other chance of undoing the wrong I had done. Fear 
of death stared me in the face. I though they would hinder 
our marriage. Susie, I am telling you now what I have learned 
with time. It seems almost like an excuse; but you know we 
were in front of two puzzles and I thought my only chance of 
winning the second was by getting time. 

“It sounded all right; but it fell all wrong. I knew it 
directly I saw my boat was gone; I knew it more certainly 
when we were hustling through the fog and that silent death 
came smashing into us; I knew it better when they picked me 
up and carried me away to Montevideo. Trust me, I saw it 
all then. I saw what a fool I had been. It was just ghastly. 


MRS. SURRIDGE GIVES ADVICE 


343 


Every day we were going farther away, every day the possi- 
bility of our marriage was put back two. My dear, I got to 
curse the sunrise. The sea maddened me. 

^‘Tssss! Never a sail, lass, all the way out. Never a 
chance of sending a line — days, weeks, months of solitude, till 
we reached the Plata and I was free to join a boat for home. 
It was on that passage I learned to see straight. Anyone 
would. Even a fool. And so I came back to Abbeyville. I 
came back to tie the knot we’d left untied, Susie — and then 
— “His voice took a sterner note. He ceased and, drawing 
the girl close in his arms, questioned: “You can bear it? 
You are brave now, sweet?” 

“I can bear anything. Jack. We are together.” 

A tremulous answer, and almost tearful voice; then her 
head nestled on his shoulder and again he smoothed the tumbled 
hair with that unsoft hand she seemed to find so gentle. 

“We’ve got to face it,” he announced at length. “Duns- 
combe wasn’t killed by me — I need not tell you that — but 
the warrant is still out against me. I must surrender and 
stand my trial if need be, and Saunderson will be 
charged.” 

She looked up swiftly at this : “Then you believe that too ? ” 

“Tony Crow’s evidence, so the lawyer says, would hang a 
dozen Saundersons.” 

The girl’s eyes filled, she buried her face, crying out: “Oh! 
it is awful — awful! Jack, how could I ” 

And again he soothed her. “Forget, forget!” he begged. 
“There is nothing else to do, only to forget and settle down 
to fight.” 

“See here,” he continued, speaking with young assurance, 
“I have arranged everything. This morning before it was 
light I came into Abbeyville and got into the place Tony had 


344 


THE ISSUE 


fixed up for me. I am going to stay there so as to be near you, 
Susie, while we are working up the evidence. 

“Tony Crow has been at it ever since I ran, but he tells me 
that it was only the other day that he came upon what he 
wanted. It appears that the day before Dunscombe’s murder, 
he had asked Saunderson to take a small box to one of the 
Riverton shops for repairs. Saunderson forgot to leave it. It 
was in his pocket that night on the sea-wall, and there he lost it. 

“That with the evidence of the girl, Dolly Crassley, will be 
sufficient to clear me. Mr. Sherren is certain of the result and 
so am I. There can be no doubt about it, for you see Saunder- 
son had been discharged the night Dunscombe met me. How 
do we know? Bless you, the servant girl at Dunscombe’r 
house heard the man threaten to finish his master. Oh! it 
is all certain enough. We need not fear. You need not fear, 
Susie. Why, Saunderson is on his way to Malden now. But 
he may never reach Malden, for the police are after him and if 
he gets there they will take him on his arrival. Then I shall 
surrender and Saunderson will be charged.” 

He stood there so confident in his power to accomplish these 
matters that Susie bowed to the influence and smiled back at the 
eyes watching so passionately her own. At that moment it 
seemed that the fight was accomplished, that Jack was free, 
and their bridal day already on the horizon. Youth is so lusty, 
so full of hope — and these two were young and in love. And 
as if in confirmation of the notion which ran through Susie’s 
mind, there came the man’s deep voice as he stood there read- 
ing her eyes. “And then, Susie,” he questioned. “And 
then?” 

She met his look, a crimsoning flush adding to the beauty 
which was undeniably hers: “I am ready, darling, when you 
are ready to take me.” 


MRS. SURRIDGE GIVES ADVICE 


345 


Far in the darkness overhead the trees sighed; then a swift 
gust swept down the valley showering upon them their wealth 
of leaves. Susie shivered and clung to her lover’s arm as they 
moved for shelter. “Come in, come in,” she begged. 
“Again there is rain and I am afraid.” 

“Afraid — now? Nonsense, lass. We are safe and you are 
mine.” 

They crossed quickly out of the road and entered the garden. 
And as they came up the path the cottage door opened and Mrs. 
Surridge appeared, standing in the glare of the lamp with Tom, 
on tiptoe, peeping over her shoulder. 

“Where they hev got to I can’t think no more than Adam.” 
Mrs. Surridge expostulated, “Susie’ll catch her death.” 

“No she won’t,” her husband decided truculently. “I 
don’t mind you catchin’ your death when I was walkin’ out 
wi’ you. Leave ’em alone.” 

At this the truant couple strolled into sight and halted at 
the door. 

“ La! ” cried Mrs. Surridge with hands uplifted and astonish- 
ment written visibly in her expressive face, “La! if it isn’t Mr. 
Elliott.” 

“Z’ if you didn’t know that all along!” said Tom with a 
chuckle. “Come in. Jack; come in an’ welkim.” 

Mrs. Surridge moved ponderously to the front holding out 
one hand. And with the other pressed over a noticeable 
fluctuation in the region of her bodice she beamed a massive 
and unqualified approval. “Welcome’s the word,” she an- 
nounced with an air, “from every one here plesent. Good 
luck and welcome: that’s my wishes and many of ’em. Get 
in, Tom, doey get in!” 


CHAPTER IV 


Saunderson’s Luck Changes 

S EVERAL days had passed and the time coincided with 
that pause made by Saunderson in the Swatch. A 
cold, bleak day; but within the cottage at Swinfleet 
a voice singing merrily as Susie went about her morning tasks. 
Breakfast was over, and presently, at dusk to be precise. Jack 
would again be with her. Therefore she sang until from the 
window she espied a boy dressed in the nondescript uniform 
of the country telegraph service coming down the garden 
path. 

He knocked on the door and stood whistling. The singing 
ceased as the girl opened to him. The boy stopped whistling 
and said in an inquiring banter: “Susie Sutcliffe?” and 
followed it up with a request for a match. He produced a 
cigarette and a telegram simultaneously and motioned with 
one hand to indicate his desire. 

Susie closed the door without heeding him. She held an 
envelope between finger and thumb, staring at it with the vague 
suspicion of persons unaccustomed to the receipt of telegraphic 
dispatches. A thought came to fluster her. Was it from 
Jack? Was it possible that Jack would be unable to come? 
She tore the cover open with a sudden earnestness and saw that 
it was not from Jack; that it came from Port Victoria — a place 
of which she had no knowledge. She saw, too, that it was 
signed by Micky Doolan, the mate of the Tantalus. All this 
she gathered in the first flush of fear and almost before her brain 

346 


SAUNDERSON’S LUCK CHANGES 


347 


had grasped the meaning of the written words. She turned to 
read again. The message ran thus: 

“Accident down river. Father hurt bad. Come at once 
to Port Victoria. Boat waiting to take jou off to Tantalus. 

Urgent. “Micky Doolan, Mate.” 

Susie stood a moment questioning what she must do. The 
telegram announced definitely that her father was ill — per- 
haps dying. Her uncle on whom she could rely was away on a 
distant portion of the farm; her aunt gone on an errand to the 
village; Jack was at Riverton with the lawyers. Thus the girl 
was alone in the house with a vision of her father’s death to 
fluster her. 

She glanced swiftly at the clock and saw that it would be 
possible to catch the train. The knowledge steadied her. She 
decided that she must go. There was no alternative. The 
telegram appealed with the force of a command. 

She rose at once and hastened to her room whence shortly 
she emerged dressed for the journey. With a little shiver of 
apprehension she took the telegram and scribbled a short note 
at the foot of it; then having fastened the cottage door and 
deposited the key in its usual hiding place when all were out on 
different errands, she started for the station. 


The sun had set behind a gloomy bank of clouds when at 
length Susie alighted on the dreary platform which terminates 
the line crossing the Hundred of Hoo. The trains had met 
badly, a condition of affairs she might have expected, but she 
felt only heart-sick at the additional loss of time. Her father, 
she remembered, might be dying. Nothing else appealed. 

A light breeze from the southeast chased a low and smoke- 
like scud across the darkening heavens. The wind moaned in 


348 


THE ISSUE 


fitful gusts, shaking the high railway pier which abuts on the 
Medway’s bank and whistled shrilly amidst the slime and sea- 
weed clinging to the gaunt legs which carried it. Susie moved 
out into the gloom searching for the promised boat. At the 
verge of the shed a man stood viewing the passengers crossing 
to the Sheerness ferry. When all had passed he approached 
the girl. 

“Lookin’ fer the Tantalus boat?” he questioned gruffly. 

Susie came towards him at once: “Yes; are you sent to fetch 
me ? Oh! how is my father — please, please tell me.” 

“Father ain’t no better ner ’ee ain’t no wuss, so fur as I can 
mike aat,” the man replied. “ M’ybe we’d best get on board. 
I’m abaat sick o’ diddlin’ ’ere. It’s cruel cold, an’ that’s the 
truth.” 

“Tell me,” she pleaded, undeterred, “that — that he isn’t 
dead.” 

The man eyed her with stolid unconcern: “Dead?” he 
ejaculated, “Naa, ’ee ain’t dead; but ’ee’s powerful sick.” 

Susie made no further remark but hastened to the end of the 
pier. Here a grim flight of steps yawned over the blackness 
and she halted uncertain. 

The man looked at her. ‘You wite ’ere,” he said, “’old on 
to the rilin’ an’ I’ll fetch me glim to show the road.” 

He descended the ladder and climbed into the boat. Far 
away and very dim he appeared to the watching girl. The 
lamp threw a faint blurr and the man moved about a boat 
which rocked, muzzling the ladder’s side. The man glanced 
up. At the top of the steps a shadow flitted. The whole 
business was a nuisance, a nuisance which, now that he faced 
it, seemed a trifle flustering. He had been sent to fetch this 
girl and had been ordered to say that her father was very sick — 
dying, if need be, in order to get her to accompany him. 


SAUNDERSON’S LUCK CHANGES 


349 


Hitherto he had been inclined to swear at what seemed to be a 
wild goose chase for some other person’s benefit. But now that 
he had seen the girl he discovered that she awed him. She 
was young, stupidly young for such a business. She required 
protection, and yet, there stood the fact that she required no 
pressing. He could not make her out. She seemed more of a 
“lidy” than that sort usually were. She was dressed in black 
and was undoubtedly much frightened. Well, if the skipper 
had a fancy for ladies it was all right. He had to fetch her. 
He had to interfere in nothing. Right, he wouldn’t interfere; 
but he made up his mind, as he mounted like a dim octopus 
from the depths, that he would call her Miss. So — there was 
no longer any question in his mind. She must be Miss. 

He helped her down the slimy steps without comment, and 
did not speak again, until the pier had long vanished and they 
were afloat on the shimmering waters — waters black and inky 
as a bath of oil; oil that reflected greasy strokes of light and 
hissed alongside with the noise of moving straw. Only once 
during their tedious journey did Susie break the silence; she 
begged to know how far they had still to go. The mate rested 
on his oars. He spoke more kindly. 

^‘Not fur. Missy. It’s bin a tidy pull; but we’s more ner 
hawlf w’y there.” 

Susie shivered and drew her cloak more closely about her. 
The man looked up with sudden anxiety. 

‘‘Are ye cold?” he questioned; “’ere; tike my oilskin; ’tain’t 
werry soft, an’ there’s no frills abaat it as I know of, but it’s 
a good un fer keepin’ aat the cold. It’s turned a’mighty thick — 
an’ the wind’s dyin’.” 

He handed the coat and helped to wrap it about 
her shoulders; then sitting back to his oars continued mys- 
teriously: 


350 


THE ISSUE 


“If this gime ain’t to yer fancy, Missy; w’y you look t’Bill 
Marley an’ ’ee’ll be there.” 

Susie faced him abruptly. “What do you mean?” she 
cried. 

“If you dawn’t know, I’m suttin’ sure I dawn’t. Missy.” 
“But indeed I don’t understand you.” 

“Lumme!” he returned, then began to sing softly: 


“ If I ’ad a mide as was so fair, 

O! U-ri-o; 

D’ye think I’d leave ’er to tear ’er ’air, 
Wen we’re bound to the Ri-o Grande.’ ” 


“Oh! don’t, don’t,” she cried; “it isn’t kind when I’m in 
such trouble.” Her voice rang with the echo of tears, and she 
leaned forward a mere beggar for his mercy. 

The man shut his jaws with a snap, gave an extra pull at the 
oars and turning to her whispered: “Lumme, I oughter known 
better, sling it, and mind wot I sez just now.” He backed 
hard on his starboard scull and turned the boat’s head towards 
a vessel which seemed to have sprung out of the night and 
suddenly taken its place beside them. He stood up, clutching 
at the shrouds. “ Jump aat,” he cried; “ ketch holt o’ my arm 
an’ go steady.” 

Susie accepted his proffered help and glanced around. 

“But this is not the Tantalus” she cried; “she isn’t big 
enough — this is a barge.” 

“That’s all right, don’t you worrit. Missy. The Tantalus 
lies furder dahn; we couldn’t fetch her in the boat — stritel 
No lawks!” 

The girl’s heart stood still. Her voice thrilled with fear as 
she cried out: “Are you sure of what you say? Are you? 
Where is my father? Tell me — tell me.” 


SAUNDERSON’S LUCK CHANGES 


351 


“If this ain’t a go, lumme!” said the man. “Jump aboord 
an’ we’ll run ’e dahn to father in a brice of shikes.” 

Susie had no option in the matter, she was compelled to 
obey. The man spoke roughly, but that, she knew from her 
voyages with her father, was the language of the bargee. She 
guessed, too, from what he had said, that perhaps he was kinder 
than appeared; so putting her hand in his she looked him in 
the face and said: 

“I believe what you say. I will trust you. Where shall I 
go?” 

He led her aft and taking her to the scuttle, pointed down the 
stairs, “Right, Missy,” he returned, “you trust me. There’s 
no one dahn below — if I was you I’d go dahn — then we’ll up 
mud’ook an’ aw’y,” 

“How far have we to go?” 

“None so fur. You go into the kebbin’ an’ rest warm.” 

Susie did as she was ordered, and immediately the scuttle 
was drawn and fastened. 


CHAPTER V 


Mrs. Surridge Moves 


ARLY in the afternoon of the same day Elliott and Tony 



jL/ Crow were seated in Mr. Sherren’s sanctum. The 
two men had come in from Abbeyville to compare 
notes with Dolly Crossley and Micky Doolan and to prepare 
their evidence for the lawyer. They had been so engaged since 
twelve o’clock and Mr. Sherren sitting there giving directions 
to a junior rubbed his hands pleasantly over the web he was 
weaving around Saunderson. In the midst of it an altercation 
arose in the outer office; and as it appeared to increase the 
lawyer paused and struck a gong. A clerk opened the door 
and looked in. 

“What is all that racket about, Johnson? Kindly see that 
silence is kept,” said the master. 

The clerk looked aggrieved, “I’m afraid, sir,” he replied, 
“we can scarcely prevent it. There is a person outside who 
appears to be under some misapprehension. We can’ t get rid 
of her.” 

“Who is she?” 

“A country person, sir; tall and fat and ” 

“That’s a lie, young man — tall and fat indeed!” cried an 
excited voice from the doorway. “Trim and tidy an’ respect- 
able — that’s the prescription an’ don’t you forget it.” 

Tony Crow winked at his friend. “Socks!” he cried, 
“yon’s Mrs. Surritch.” 

“Mrs. Who?” the lawyer questioned. 


352 


MRS. SURRIDGE MOVES 


353 


“Mrs. Surritch, sir— Tammas’ old woman; Susie’s uncle.” 

Mr. Sherren glanced at the blacksmith and gathering more 
from his look than from the lucidity of his reply, turned to the 
clerk and desired him to show the lady in. 

Mrs. Surridge waited no second invitation. In a moment 
she had bustled in, glared at the clerk, and stood to confront 
the “lawyer-man.” 

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, for the hintaluption,” she gasped 
as she searched among her skirts and rolled the aspirate to the 
front; “I don’t hold with hintalupting anybody; but there is 
times when it’s to be excuged, an’ this, hin my opinion, is one 
of them. Jack, my dear, this telegraft came while me an’ Tom 
are hout, and Susie’s to home alone. An’ what’s the result? 
Why, Susie’s gone to see after him, as is nateral.” 

She crossed over and handed the telegram as she spoke; 
then, having assured herself that her petticoats were in order, 
sank into a chair and proceeded to fan her heated face. 

“Gone to look after him?” Elliott repeated fingering the 
paper in some perplexity. 

“Hit’s what you might have expected of her, seein’ it’s 
Susie — an’ beggin’ your pardon for the trouble I’m giving,” 
she continued without pause, “an’ there would a bin no excuse 
for it, onlie, she says, ‘Tell Jack’, she says, ‘an’ he will folia.’ 
So here I ham — drove in in farmer Stokeses’ milk cart an’ 
jilted to a blessed jelly with springs that are more like — sakes 
alive! What’s wrong with you. Jack?” 

This exclamation was caused by Elliott’s sudden shout of 
dismay as he read the message. “ Good God ! ” he cried again, 
“this is Saunderson’s work — Saunderson, do you under- 
stand?” 

“Saunderson!” Mrs. Surridge reiterated rising and glanc- 
ing hastily about her. 


354 


THE ISSUE 


“Saunderson sent that wire,’’ Elliott asserted moving to- 
ward the lawyer, who had risen also. 

“Nonsense, Jack, you’re wrong — all wrong,” Mrs. Surridge 
objected. “It’s poor George as is hurt. It’s writ plain as 
sucking pigs, an’ Susie’s gone to nuss him.” 

Elliott stood like one dazed. The blacksmith approached 
and touched him on the back, “Haund ower t’ telegraft t’ Mr. 
Sheeron, Jock; haund it ower — there’s a man.” 

The lawyer adjusted his pince-nez and taking the message 
read as follows: 

“Susie Sutcliffe, 

do Surridge, Ivy Farm, Swinfleet, 

“Accident down river. Father hurt bad. Come at once 
to Port Victoria. Boat waiting to take you off to Tantalus, 

Urgent. Micky Doolan, Mate.” 

“Micky Doolan?” Mr. Sherran accentuated glancing 
over his glasses. “Why surely that is the man we have been 
talking to?” 

Elliott broke out with a gust of passion at this; “It’s a lie, 
a lie!” he cried. “Not a word is true. Saunderson sent 
that wire.” 

“Steady, my lad,” said the lawyer. 

But Elliott was moving up and down the office in ungovern- 
able anger. “Again I have made a hash of it!” he cried out. 
“Again he has got to windward and left me. Micky Doolan 
is not mate of the Tantalus. He left last voyage and Saunder- 
son sent that message to get the girl.” 

He gathered up his cap and reached for the telegram, but 
the lawyer intervened. “One moment,” he said. “We will 
send for Doolan. He is going down river to meet a ship, you 
say. Very well stop him.” He paused and looked at the 
blacksmith. “Perhaps,” he resumed, “you will go down to 
the pier and stop him?” 


MRS. SURRIDGE MOVES 


355 


Tony Crow rose at once. “Ah will,” he replied. “Mean- 
while ah hope your honour will be able t’ fix oop a way t’ collar 
the lot.” 

As he left the office the lawyer turned to Mrs. Surridge. 
“When did the girl start?” he questioned. 

Elliott, who had been silently examining the telegram for 
some time, found voice at this. “She caught the midday train, 
sir: that’s certain from what she has written on the form. ‘I am 
going,’ she says, ‘by the next train to see him. I will bring him 
home if I can. Tell Jack and if I can’t return ask him to 
follow me.’ And, sir, from the telegram I see that it was re- 
ceived at 11:30. She could do it easily. Excuse me, I’m 
off.” 

“Stay!” cried the lawyer sharply, “don’t court the lock-up. 
I warned you this morning that the warrant for your arrest is 
still in existence. Take this card, and if anyone stops you 
show it — you understand?” 

“You are very good, sir, and I thank you,” he replied. 

“Never mind that but tell me what are your plans.” 

“As for that, sir, I’m going to overhaul the Red Gauntlet. 
It’s easy as child’s-play now we know where Saunderson is. 
You remember Micky Doolan saw him leaving Thames Haven 
last night — ^very well; the tide wouldn’t let him get farther than 
the Medway and as the telegram is stamped Port Victoria, he’s 
lying in the Swatch. If Susie left by the train we expect, she 
would reach Port Victoria about three o’clock, that’s a certainty; 
then there’s the row down to the Swatch where the Gauntlets 
lying — that would take another hour. Sir, she’s scarcely 
there yet. She can’t reach much before we can overhaul them 
with the Stormy Petrel. I’ll have them if I die for it. I’ll 
find them if it’s the last day’s work I do on God’s earth. Sir, 
I’m off.” 


3S6 


THE ISSUE 


The lawyer crossed over and took Elliott by the hand. 

“Good/’ he decided. “And I think possibly I, too, may 
have helped in this matter. The fact is I gave instructions to 
the river police to keep in touch with the Red Gauntlet. They 
are not far away. Look out for them as you go down. And 
now, good luck. Let me hear as soon as you return. Mean- 
while I will see the police again and arrange with them in the 
matter of your warrant. Outside you will find a cab. Take 
it and get along as fast as you can.” 

They left the office at once and drove to the pier. Here they 
found Tony Crow waiting outside the gate through which they 
must pass. 

“Gude for ye. Jack, lad,” he cried as he joined them and 
hurried to the steps where lay a boat in readiness. “Gude 
for ye, ma son. Ah’m coomin’ wi’ ye masen, an' odds the 
sluckit-sasser business. Wha wouldn’t? Socks! Ah’m think- 
in’ ah’ve getten t’ flee, under ma hammer noo. All awa, lad! 
Ower wi’ us t’ yonder tuggie. Eigh! Jack too. Eigh! 
Missis Surritch, what like d’ye ca’ it noo?” 

He gripped one after the other by the hand, shaking them 
effusively. His face was a-pucker with smiles. There was 
no fear of failure in Tony’s heart. He spoke and acted as one 
who has triumphed, who at the end of a race was first past the 
tape. 

They came to the Stormy Petrel’s ladder and bestowed them- 
selves on her bridge, where Micky Doolan stood waiting to 
give the signal to weigh anchor. Mrs. Surridge, who found 
herself now for the first time afloat, and without her husband, 
approached the skipper with anxiety written in every line of 
her kindly features. “Capting Doolan,” she whispered, 
“what Tom would think if so be he knew where I wuz, I can’t 
imagine no more than Adam. It seems to me that I should go. 


MRS. SURRIDGE MOVES 


357 


There’s no other woman of her own sect to see her straight. 
It’s my dooty an’ I’ll go through with it if I die.” 

Micky Doolan unfastened the wheel lashing and": stood 
ready to start. “Ut’s good av ye to come,” he announced, 
“an’ as fer Tom Surridge, why he’d say the same if you ask 
me.” 

Mrs. Surridge hastened to fill the ensuing pause. “To 
think,” she exclaimed, “as that poor lamb’s bin dissuaded to 
go an’ meet that — himage — that — well, there, what can a per- 
son call a chap with a passel o’ wives like that? Sakes alive! 
he ain’t a man. He’s a Norman — that’s what he is.” 

Elliott came along the main deck calling to them: “All 
ready there, Micky?” 

“Aye, Jack — all ready.” 

“Go straight for the Nore. Don’t think of anything else. 
We must overhaul them. Let her away.” 

Then turning abruptly he rejoined the crew and busied him- 
self aiding them to stow the anchor. Mrs. Surridge watched 
him tearfully. 

“Well,” she remarked in tones that quivered, “if that ain’t 
what I call affection, I don’t know nothing about it. Some 
folks,” she went on, addressing Tony Crow and the skipper 
in turn, “some folks say there aint’ no sich thing. But I say 
it’s what’s at the back o’ that. Ever since he were that high,” 
Mrs. Surridge measured some three feet from the deck, “ he’ve 
just wushupped the ground the gell trod on. An’ now he’s 
goin’ to save her. Ah, Tony Crow, you may laugh, but Old 
Moore’s right. Danger to a crow-ned head; wars an’ rumours 
o’ wars, wid trouble in the ager-i-culteral districs come Decem- 
ber. All of which has come to pass. And if that plophet,” 
she concluded with a touch of regret, “had only spotted how 
things would run in Febuary, I’d say as the King might do 


358 


THE ISSUE 


wuss than bear him in mind next time he’s ladling out them 
barrownices.” 

A voice from the men engaged forward brought her remarks 
to a close and the skipper turned to the engine-room gong 
which he smote with his heel. 

“All away it is!” he cried. “Full speed, my son — full 
speed!” 

Then with a roll of machinery and a sudden hiss of foam 
the Stormy Petrel moved from her anchorage and headed down 
river. 


The day was fast closing in. Dark banks of cloud lay heavily 
massed on the horizon. The wind was failing and when at 
length they reached the Jenkin the night was fully come. But 
now the moon crept through the eastern banks and hung there 
red and angry to mark the driving scud. A stern night; a 
night of presage and warning to all those huddled craft lying 
at pause waiting the tide which should free them. 

A gale was growing out there on the heaving sea; a hint of 
the power, couched and dormant as yet, but flaunting hourly 
its approach, raced across the moon’s red face until with the 
passage of time it had mounted from those strangling banks 
and looked down in misty serenity on the twisting lane of 
waters winding there towards London. 

But the Stormy PetreVs crew heeded nothing of this. They 
moved onward, staring into the sheen, searching the river with 
tireless eyes, swearing, commenting. Now and again they 
came upon an outward bound vessel lying with flapping sails 
and groaning rudder in the lap of the swell. If she chanced to 
be a barge they steered to examine her; if not they passed un- 
heeding. 


MRS. SURRIDGE MOVES 


359 


Each man of the crew was on the look out. No one thought 
of sleep. Even the cantankerous firemen forgot to agitate for 
fewer hours, for Elliott had been among them and told his 
story. As nothing succeeds like success, so, conversely, noth- 
ing is so damnable as failure. And, following the law, on Wind- 
bag Saunderson there fell a growing chorus of promised ven- 
geance. The unsuccessful leader of the strike! The bully of 
the river! The man of destiny and the murderer of Dunscombe 
— the thing was plain. Saunderson lay in the toils. 

It was nearly six o’clock when they steamed past the Nore 
and turned to search the Medway anchorage. As time crawled 
on Elliott’s misery increased. Susie must be with this man 
now. It was impossible to conceive any further respite. The 
mist was denser here; but what of that? The wind which 
should help the Red Gauntlet had failed; again, what of that? 
Was there not a tide ? Was it not possible to a man of Saunder- 
son ’s tenacity to hide somewhere in this labyrinthic maze of 
channels, creeks, and backwaters? to hide, to bide his time, 
and to creep away under cover of that same mist ? True. But 
in this matter Elliott in common with the rest had failed to 
pierce the man’s depth. They knew nothing of the force that 
dogged him and, had they known, would not have appreciated 
its value. A river man is what he appears to be. His life, his 
trend, his actions are of the surface. One does not suspect 
depths, and subtlety of thought is a thing distinguished from 
subtlety of action. The former is undiscussed, the latter ad- 
mitted but scarcely understood. 

At this moment the things which stood out were plain for all 
men to read, and the rest had no part among a race who speak 
their minds when they have anything to say, and act on the 
spur when anything is to be done. 

Therefore they walked the bridge and main deck growling and 


360 


THE ISSUE 


promising one to the other what would happen to ‘‘Win’bag^* 
when they met, until a bright glare springing up on their eastern 
horizon brought all to a halt. 

They had turned the vessel some time earlier and were now 
‘‘sweeping’* the river going toward the Nore. The moon was 
momentarily hidden and the estuary rolled blacker for her 
absence. A voice broke the silence: 

“Ut’s a boatman’s signal. Arroo! if ut wass the Rid Gaunt- 
let ^ glory be, Amin. Let her away!” 

Elliott approached the skipper, “Steady, Micky!” he cried, 
“ Maybe it’s the police. Steer for her, my son; steer for her.” 

“Whisht! I’d clane forgot them. Right; we’ll take a look.” 

He put the wheel over and the tug headed for the Oaze. 
The flare had vanished yet they crept on in silent expectation, 
waiting, as Micky said, “fer the end av things,” and straining 
their eyes with the elusive light. 

Then again the flare grew bright and they saw a small blotch 
lying on the swell; a little smudge of grayness thrown into 
bolder relief by the flaming oil. There was no longer need for 
doubt. It was a boat, possibly the boat for which they searched, 
the boat which had tracked Saunderson thus far on his journey. 

The Stormy Petrel crashed on without pause. They passed 
a barge lying under the tail of the sands and hailed her: 

“What d’ye make of yonder light?” 

“A boatman wanting a pluck belike.” 

“Aye, so I thought.” 

“A dirty night’s lying behind that swell, skipper.” 

“You’re right. S’long.” 

“So long, matee.” 

They crept onward and in five minutes were slowing engines 
besides the flare which again burned to mark the position. 
Then a voice came out to greet them: “Tug ahoy! ” 


MRS. SURRIDGE MOVES 


361 


“Hello! What boat is that ? ” 

“Thames police. Where are you bound? Give us a pull 
up.’^ 

“Aye, my sons. Jump aboard. We were lookin’ fer yez — 
jump aboard.” 

The crew clustered about them as they reached the deck; 
their questions fell in a rugged stream: 

“Hast seed the Red Gauntlet?''* 

“Wheer in Gawd’s name is the Red Gauntlet?** 

“What of Saunderson?” 

Then Elliott came forward and displayed the card he had 
received and the inspector took up the halting answer. 

“So you are Jack Elliott! Ah! it’s well you have that note, 
lad. The Red Gauntlet? Yes. She’s away for Malden — 
bound up the Black Deep as fast as the wind will let her. We 
can do no good here. They will stop her when she arrives.” 

“Saunderson will never go to Malden,” Elliott broke in with 
a gust of passion. “He has stolen the girl away from her 
home. He will never go there now he knows we are after 
him.” 

“Stolen the girl — again? Ah! then that’s what he was 
doing lying around in the Swatch this twelve hours. Good. 
We can save the girl — if the skipper here is game to run a bit 
outside his owner’s orders; but the man will have to be ashore 
before we can touch him.” 

“Is that so?” Elliott questioned. 

“With my powers I can go no farther.” 

“Begorra!” Micky Doolan asserted, “thin I don’t think 
much av yer warrant annyway. Whhat’U we be afther ? ” 

“Get him ashore, my lad. Persuade him to land.” The 
inspector came near and tapped him on the shoulder. “Per- 
suade him to land, cap’n, and you shall see what you shall see.” 


362 


THE ISSUE 


Micky Doolan took his meaning and struck vigorously at his 
own outstretched palm. “We will that,’' he cried. “Arroo! 
lave ut to us, sorr — lave ut to us an’ say where you want me to 
stheer.” 

“Let her away for the Deeps, my son,” he returned, “for 
at dusk the Red Gauntlet was flapping along this side of the 
Mouse, heading for Barrow Deep.” 

A chorus of noisy speech drifted up from the men waiting 
beneath the bridge as Micky sprang to the wheel and punched 
the gong. 

“Sorr, you’re the foinest man I’ve seen this soide av Kilk- 
kenny,” he announced. “Full speed, me son, let her out.” 

The Stormy Petrel swept across the estuary, wallowing with 
the sullen splash that accompanies a rolling vessel. No one 
spoke now. Each man knew that it was but a question of 
minutes before they came up with the chase; and each man 
hugged his own pet theory of punishment. 

The night was less dark. A misty sheen lay across the 
distant sands, hazy, white, indefinite in the eye of a scud- veiled 
moon; the swell showed up in serried lines of shadow, like the 
ranks of an army moving across a sun-lit plain. The song of 
the surf came down to greet them; the drone of the pulsing 
engines, the flap of paddles incessantly churning the gray river — 
these were sounds accompanying them as they came within 
range of that green light swinging so slowly across the Channels. 


CHAPTER VI 


Bill Marley 

M eanwhile the Red Gauntlet was under way and 
Saunderson, standing silent at the wheel, steered for 
the Deeps. 

For twenty-four hours he had lived a new life; hope had 
returned to him, he had dreamed dreams, seen visions and 
imagined that his luck was changing — his luck, the thing which 
had baffled him all these months, had changed. Susie was on 
board. He had won. With Susie he argued that his life, his 
future was safe. He swore it as he watched her coming along- 
side, swore it, as, without any great persuasion, he saw her 
descend into the cabin. At that moment he walked on air. 
But as they picked up anchor and started toward the goal he 
had in view, a new thought came to trouble him. He had 
overshot the mark. Hours had elapsed, and the conditions so 
favourable when he formed his plans, had already taken a new 
turn to baffle him. 

Two facts presented themselves as he came from his stealthy 
pause in the Swatch. The wind was failing and Fisherman’s 
Gat lay full in his track. 

The signals flaunting in the gray dome overhead pointed 
with remorseless irony to a dying breeze; the scud moving so 
swiftly from the southeast; the hollow lap of the undriven 
wavelets; the whang and flutter of sails towering far into the 
night — all were indications a tyro could hardly misinterpret, 
certainly no sailor could misread. 

363 


364 


THE ISSUE 


A calm awaited them. A calm, a forced detention perhaps 
in the vicinity of the Gat itself. It was a hindrance of which 
he had not dreamed, a thing altogether small and too un- 
worthy to have required anticipation. And yet it faced him. 

At first these matters loomed only vaguely in the man’s 
imagination. They had appeared as untoward incidents too 
disagreeable to contemplate with serenity; but with time, 
they grew, and when presently the barge drew past the light 
sweeping from the Nore and he learned precisely how slow was 
their progress, the rememberance of Susie’s presence and the 
aid she could give him, were nearly obliterated by fear — fear 
induced solely by the fact of a failing breeze. 

He stood on now in sullen hope; passively watching Dame 
Nature’s signals and marking the flight of time. Nothing he 
could do would alter the conditions. He dared not turn tail 
and run for the Medway and he dared not anchor for fear of 
pursuit. Thus, in the tardy hour of his triumph, when circum- 
stance had appeared to smile more favourably upon him, he 
found himself again thrust into the position he dreaded perhaps 
more than all on earth. 

He stamped on the deck, thinking grimly of his monstrous 
luck. A recollection crossed him and he swore. The mate, a 
noisy, truculent, and uncivil ruffian, a man not likely to be troub- 
led with a delicate conscience, had manifested signs of dis- 
approval while they were getting under way. What had come 
to him, Saunderson could not guess. It was curious. Chks! 
He threw the incident to the winds and giving his attention 
again to the compass, watched until they crept like a phantom 
to a position opposite the Mouse. 

Night brooded heavily on the face of the waters; a solemn 
night, turgid, lacking breath, and painted at intervals by the 
green flare flung by the lightship. It was quiet too; quiet as 


BILL MARLEY 


365 

the buoys marking the Channel: nothing could have been less 
opportune and to a man of Saunderson’s type, nothing more 
appalling. The scud raced through space revealing fleeting 
gleams of moonlight. There was wind coming, a whole pot- 
ful from the ^southeast — meanwhile there must first ensue a 
calm. 

The wind slowly failed. The lightship seemed chained 
abeam. They sagged onward — a mile, perhaps two, with 
whanging sprit and flapping sails, then at about midnight 
there came the knowledge that the remaining hours of darkness 
must be passed within sight of the sands. 

Saunderson’s mental torture increased as he stood there 
steering, gazing furtively at the puny wavelets, noting his 
distances, and recognising the steady drift of events. It was 
monstrous. It was devilish. Why had he been thus singled 
out, marked down, and pursued? What had he done to de- 
serve it? He had done nothing — nothing. He called God 
to witness that what had happened had not been of his ordering. 
Events had grown precisely as this calm was growing He had 
no volition in the matter. No one had volition — the thing 
was an accident, beyond his control; fashioned perhaps by the 
very force which now conspired to lay him by the heels. What 
could he do? What could anyone do? Nothing — nothing. 

He stared into the depths, muttering, questioning, listening; 
until a faint cry fell upon his ears. Far off it sounded, far off 
and resonant, like the clang of a distant gong. He glanced 
about, and for an instant his pulses throbbed to the memory of 
another cry; then in an instant, and with a flush of joy, he 
recollected Susie’s presence in the cabin. It was Susie who 
cried to him; Susie, his wife, before whose presence the chimeras 
which so oppressed him would disappear. She was his. He 
argued that his other wife being dead, Susie was his wife. 


366 


THE ISSUE 


She had come without any protest; she would forget the past, 
and presently would love him. And he ? There was no need 
to wait. His love was hers; he had given it — in blood, in 
tears, in sweat, in gold he had given it and she was his. No 
other living soul could claim her now. 

A swell heavier than those hitherto encountered, interrupted 
the seething thoughts. The barge lurched far to windward 
and fell back in the trough with a dismal clang. Saunderson 
stared into the murk; the noise jarred his nerves. He shouted 
to the mate to pass the lee vang forward and watched to see it 
done. 

Marley executed the order, then, leaning against the rail, 
looked at his commander. 

‘‘Simes to me,” he remarked, “we’d best dahn kellick — 
there ain’t enough wind to blow aw’y a mosqueta.” 

“I don’t anchor here,” Saunderson replied gruffly. 

“W’y not. Skipper?” 

“What in flames is that t’ you.” 

The mate stared. “’Tain’t much suttin’ly,” he returned. 
Then crossing the deck he lounged against the vang fall, and 
commenced whistling one of the only tunes he knew : 

“We’re bound to the Rio Grande.” 

Saunderson bore this for some time; but when Marley 
entered on the fifth stanza, he grew impatient. “Stow that!” 
he shouted. “Who in thunder wants to hear about U-rio?” 

The mate chuckled. “You’re as bad as a south-Spainer, 
Skip,” he cried out. “None of ’em can stand w’istlin’ in a 
cawlm. They s’y it brings ill luck.” 

Saunderson cast his eyes up wind. “Luck an’ you be ever- 
lastingly damned!” he roared. “What d’ you know about 
such things?” 

The mate maintained his careless attitude. The sound of 


BILL MARLEY 


367 


wrath appeared to amuse him, still he looked up to explain. 
‘‘ Don’t know as I know a lot,” he said; “but I mind a cise as 
struck me funny. We’re goin’ round the ’Orn. I’m in a 
Yank, a reg’lar ’ot un; an’ just as we’re drawrin’ dahn to 
Staten Island, we drop inta one of them smokin’ souf-easters. 
Blow! Lumme, it’ud a blowed the roof off a cive — fer three 
d’ys it would. Then comes a cawlm, just fer all the world 
like this, an’ we lie slammin’ abaat fer a tosty spell. 

“There’s a cove at the w’eel one d’y, w’istlin’ a toon to pawss 
aw’y the time. The old man come on deck. Gor’me! ’ee’s 
a lush-bag, that skipper — ’ee’d a drunk the Trider dry in a 
’our. Simes us if ’ee’d ’ad a skeer sometime; anyway up 
’ee comes to the bloke at the w’eel, an’ splits ’is scull open wi 
a knuckle-duster. 

“The cove lies dahn. ’Ee don’t ever get up any more, an’ 
the skipper, wot wi the drink an’ the skeer, goes flamin’ dotty, 
an’ that night, wen it’s uz dawk uz the inside of a drine, ’ee 
tikes a walk aat into the sea, an’ drahns.” 

The mate chuckled at the rememberance. He came a pace 
nearer and continued: “Shikes! ’ee were a beauty, ’ee were. 
Too bad to drahn, ’ee were. ’Ung floatin’ abaat fer three 
d’ys on end, then the mate aats boat an’ limbers ’im to a old 
anchor shackle, an’ ’ee slumps.” 

Saunderson watched his companion, but made no sign. He 
noted that Marley was already occupied with their near ap- 
proach to the sands, and was content to follow his gaze. 

The Mouse lay glinting in the tricky moonlight. A wreath 
of foam curled high across the barrier. Saunderson fumbled 
with the wheel, growling over his shoulder: “Ease off your 
sheets! Let ’em flow. We’ll run her in an’ take her up the 
Swin.” 

The mate laughed aloud. He shouted in disdain. “Take 


368 


THE ISSUE 


’er up the Swin — will yer? Where’s the wind to mike us 
run ? ” 

“There’s a breeze cornin’ up. The moon’s scoffing the 
dirt.” The skipper held his hand aloft feeling for the breeze 
for which he prayed. Marley did as he was ordered; but the 
Red Gauntlet sagged on unheeding. He commented on the fact 
gruffly, as one who had predicted precisely what was happening. 

“Tole ye so. Simes uz if our luck’s goin’ to shove us a top 
of the san’s. Better let go the mud’ook, Skipper, an’ go an’ 
look awfter yer disy dahn aft.” 

A noise had reached the mate’s ears while they argued. 
Saunderson remained staring up channel in the direction of 
the Gat. He seemed to have forgotten, but the mate urged the 
matter with a tinge of impatience. “Skipper,” he cried; 
“wot abaht ’er dahn aft. I don’t want nothin’ to do wi it; 
but square’s square, an’ if it ain’t square w’y it’s round, an’ 
that’s strite.” 

Saunderson turned on him with an oath: “Get you out of 
this. She’s my wife, ” he growled. 

“Garn!” said the mate. “’Oo are you gettin’ at. An’ 
she come aboord t’ find ’er father. Garn! skipper — try it on 
Spuds.” 

Spuds was the dog who hung close at Marley ’s heels, growl- 
ing furtively at ever lurch. Saunderson turned to look at his 
mate. He measured himself against this new force; this 
inexplicable and obtrusive addition to his burdens, and found 
he confronted a man as heavy as himself, as tall; a man who 
had the look of one who understood the use of his hands. He 
had nothing to say, but Marley added with ready sarcasm: 
“She might be yer wife, b’ the w’y ye treat ’er. Locked up in 
the bloomin’ kebbin uz if she’d pison the Thames b’ lookin’ 
at it. Let ’er aat. Cawn’t ye ’ear ’er bellerin’ ? ” 


BILL MARLEY 


369 


Saunderson turned impatiently forward. “Let go the 
anchor; wind in on your brails,” he ordered. “We’re goin’ 
down tide — straight for the sands.” 

“A course we are,” said the mate. “In another minute we 
look like bein’ a bloomin’ beacon on the san’s. Ho, 3ais; 
I’ll dahn kellick right enough. Then we’ll ’ave yer dicky bird 
up, an”ear ’er cheep.” He went forward at once and Saunder- 
son unfastened the scuttle and descended. He decided that 
he must gain Susie’s sympathy, persuade her to aid him; then 
together they might face the mate with a refutation of his 
suggestions. The noise of his approach aroused the girl, and 
she rose to stand beside the cabin table. Saunderson halted 
at the foot of the ladder to watch. 

She was very beautiful. Her flushed face and dancing eyes; 
the ruffled, golden hair straying about her forehead, and the 
easy pose of her graceful figure, made a picture which instantly 
drove from the man’s mind those troublesome questions which 
would not allow him rest. Again he only saw Susie; again 
her beauty intervened and put to flight his dread; again, as he 
watched her, his wife’s words recurred: “You will win her 
and you shall die.” He had won. He advanced to meet her 
with outstretched arms. 

“Susie,” he cried in quick, half-gasping tones; “I had to lie 
to get you here — because — I could not stay. My wife is dead. 
You are my wife. Come over and talk. You look fair lovely, 
lass. Come over an’ talk.” 

The girl made no answer; she shrank into the farthest 
corner of the cabin, watching him in terror. Saunderson 
halted near the stove. 

“Come,” he begged.^ “All is fair in love — an’ you know I 
love you. I did what you asked me about father. I married 
you. You promised to come to love me wiv time. Now my 


370 


THE ISSUE 


wife is dead an’ you are my wife. Don’t you see I can claim 
you? Can’t you understand that at last you will be able to 
come to me wivout talk from any living soul? Can’t you see 
it? You’re not sorry — Gawd’s life, you’re not sorry? Susie, 
I’ve put it plainly — come over an’ talk.” 

He paused, extending his arms for her; but the girl’s courage 
had returned. She broke into the pause without hesitation. 

“I am not your wife,” she cried; ‘‘you have lied to me, you 
have cheated me; you have done everything to wreck my life, 
and now ” 

Saunderson’s voice leaped upon hers, overlapping it, drown- 
ing it. “Stop!” he shouted. “Don’t say a word more until 
you’ve remembered what happened first. Stop! You too played 
me a dirty trick. Susie, you made game of me before my 
mates; you refused to trust me when I begged for time — but I 
love you. Child! I love you and I’m ready to forget all, if 
you will agree to play it square in future. Wait! Let me say 
my say. It isn’t every man that would do as much; but I do 
it, an’ I do it because I love you. Lass! you can score my face 
if you will; you can wipe your pretty shoes on my chest if you 
want to; you can do as you like with me — only don’t speak 
hastily; don’t say things we may wish forgotten. Gawd love 
you, Susie; if I can’t make you happy. I’ll die,” he reiterated 
the sentence very solemnly. “I mean it; I’ll die.” 

Twice she had attempted to break in on his words; but on 
each occasion he raised his voice and she was compelled to 
listen. Now, as he paused, she turned upon him with an 
angry gesture. “Silence!” she cried. “How dare you talk 
to me of love. I am not your wife, and even if I were, do you 
think I would consent to live with the man who killed Duns- 
combe ? ” 

She flung the words at him with such headlong passion, that 


BILL MARLEY 


371 


for a moment he failed to grasp their meaning. Then his face 
darkened his eyes took a savage glint, and he moved slowly 
toward the table like a man on the edge of a seizure. ^‘What’s 
that you say ? he mumbled slowly, “what’s that — you say?” 

She turned on him with a voice that rang sharply in the 
small cabin: “I say that Tony has discovered it all. I say 
that Jack has returned. Tha^ Jack, who was accused of the 
murder you committed, has come home — that he will be set 
free and that you will be arrested when you reach Malden — 
if not before.” 

“Ah-h-h!” 

The man breathed through drawn nostrils. He stood like 
a pointer scenting game, quietly stiffening. He gripped the 
table edge with both hands and waited in silence, searching 
her with his eyes. 

At length, moving stealthily towards her and speaking with 
obvious difficulty. “Wait!” he ordered, and for a moment 
maintained the silence. Then again, still very intent on the 
cowering figure he faced, watching the tears that welled — 

“So you have heard that, have you? An’ I have to thank 
Tony Crow for it too. Tony Crow seems bent on botching 
his hand — and mine. 

“Arrest me — will they? At Malden — is it? Nay, lass, they 
will never arrest Jim Saunderson. Mark me!” he continued, 
his voice growing in power as his brain took grip of the situa- 
tion, “mark what I tell you. They will never take me any- 
where. Whish-h-h! Elliott has come home — has he? I am 
to be taken at Malden — am I? Susie, you don’t know me. 
Flames! What d’ you think I am? A fool?” 

The man’s voice rose, but there was no snap in it. His 
face became flushed and white in turn, but he crept towards 
the girl, staring at her, begging with his eyes. 


372 


THE ISSUE 


“Come here!’^ he whispered. “No; I’ll not hurt you. 
You’re my wife. I’m done.” 

He seemed to relapse into a species of lethargy. He had 
forgotten their position; he had forgotten the sullen mate 
banging with ropes on the hatches; his thoughts were whirling 
amidst the scenes through which he had come. He marked 
the fact that it was for Dunscombe he was to be arrested, and 
into the back of his mind there stole a hint of the irony of the 
situation — he who was wanted for the passing of Snuffles. 
And Tony Crow had set this matter in train. Tony Crow, 
the man who had taken Susie from him when he had won her. 
He glanced up and caught the girl’s eyes fixed upon him, and 
in a moment the desire to stand well in her remembrance 
mastered him. 

“So you think I killed Dunscombe, do you ?” he questioned 
evenly. “Wrong, Susie, wrong. I didn’t touch Dunscombe; 
but I know who did.” 

“Then you are accessory and equally to blame,” she rapped 
out. 

“And I’m not accessory,” he articulated grimly. 

“If you knew it you ” 

“Wait! I didn’t know.” 

She faced him in silence and he went on: 

“I had my suspicions; but I didn’t know, not till I met yon 
singed man, Tom Goram, in hospital. Ever heard his name ? ” 

Susie signalled assent. 

“Very well, the singed man’s dying. He was hurt that 
night when Dunscombe’s house fell. An’ he told me. I’m 
called in to see him. So he told me. And it’s taken down, 
signed, and witnessed. It’s evidence.” 

His voice leaped a moment to the old key: “Tom Goram — 
he killed Dunscombe — an’ if Dunscombe had served me as 


BILL MARLEY 


373 


he served Tom Goram, I’d have killed him too— killed him if 
I swung for it. Why? Why? Gawd’s truth, because he 
made a cripple of Tom Goram and a slut of his wife— that’s 
why, if you ask me, Susie.” 

She looked up, her face quivering, but Saunderson went 
on without heeding: 

You think I didn’t know of Tony’s fossikin’ and suspicions,” 
he jeered. ‘‘Chks! d’ye think I’m a fool? Think I have no 
eyes? But I had lost the box the blacksmith gave me and I 
wanted to find who had it — that’s why I couldn’t speak, you 
understand ? 

“Well, Tom Goram had it. He’d stole it. And, if it’s 
news to you, he dropped it the night Dunscombe met his death 
— dropped it nigh the ditch.” 

The man’s voice had grown in strength. He spoke with 
renewed grip, facing this matter which it seemed necessary to 
explain; but behind the tone there lay a touch of self-pity very 
difficult to recognise and keep silence. The girl essayed to 
speak, then with a swift turn broke into tears. 

“It is terrible,” she faltered, “and it may not be true — how 
am I to know ? ” 

“As Gawd is my Maker,” he cried out, “it is the truth. I 
tell you because I want you to judge me fair; because I wouldn’t 
have you so ready to fling hard words at the man who is your 
husband.” 

Again he relapsed into silence, his brain busy with the 
sequence of events as they appeared. Dunscombe’s death, 
Elliott’s flight, his own marriage with Susie, his wife’s return. 
Tony Crow, too, had added his quota. It seemed that he had 
set the police on his track and that meant, that meant — 
Aye, it meant all things to Saunderson, but for another happen- 
ing; it meant arrest, sentence, death, but on another count. 


374 


THE ISSUE 


He glanced swiftly about the cabin and caught the girl’s eyes 
resting on him. The thread snapped. He advanced a step 
to meet her. 

*‘Come here, Susie,” he whispered. ‘‘Let me hold you 
once. It’s the end. Lass. Say one word to me an’ I’ll go 
away to where I came from. Tell me that you would have got 
to love me if — if it hadn’t been for this — this ” 

He mouthed a sentence but no sound came. Susie gazed, 
half fascinated. 

“I can’t,” she shuddered. “It is awful — awful.” 

“Have pity! Gawd love you, have pity.” 

The plaint touched her sense of justice. If he suffered now 
what had been the lot of those against whom he fought. She 
cried out abruptly: 

“Had you pity? Had you pity on Jack, on father, on any- 
one? Had you ” 

“Wait!” his voice leaped into the old key. “Had they any 
for me ? Did father care two straws what came of me so long 
as he had my money? Did Elliott care? Did they stand by 
me or did they fight me? Chks! Elliott has returned. What 
odds? No odds, for you are my wife. You dare not fight 
me — ^)^ou dare not go back on me — now.” 

He moved towards her, holding out his hands, but she 
retreated, urging him to leave her. “I can’t,” she cried. “I 
am not your wife. You married me when your wife was 
alive; therefore I am not your wife.” 

He scarcely heard. He continued to move after her. 

“Susie, for Gawd’s sake don’t shrink from me. I can’t 
hurt you. I can’t crunch you in my arms, for you are my wife 
an’ I love you. Understand what that means ? Chks ! They’ve 
got their nails into me,” he pointed with his finger, “ one there — 
there’s no wind; another there — ^we’re at anchor; another 


BILL MARLEY 


375 


there — the Gat’s ahead of me. It’s the curse, lass. Gawd 
love you, say a word to help me — one ” 

The girl broke into a passion of tears and Saunderson caught 
her in his arms. The dull eyes, so heavy with the weight of his 
sins, so heavy with the knowledge of what was before him, stared 
mistily at this girl, lying shuddering and weeping in his grasp. 

‘T loved you — I loved you,” he cried, fierce with triumph. 
The words fell in a rugged stream. They fell hot, striking her 
with hammer-like blows. The man’s agony mastered him and 
he cried out again: ^‘It was for you I fought, for you I suffered, 
for you, as Gawd is my Judge. If I had seen you first, before 
she came, it would have been different. Have pity! One word 
— can’t? Ah! the odds are against me. Always were. The 
curse, Susie — the curse ” 

A despairing cry broke from the girl’s lips as he leaned over 
her, crushing her to him, marking the leaping colour, the 
frightened eyes; then a footstep sounded on the deck overhead, 
the scuttle was flung back, and the mate descended. Susie’s 
voice had reached him while he was still busy with the sails and 
instantly recognising there was trouble afoot, he left his work 
and came aft. 

“Naa then, skipper!” he shouted. “Fair pl’y’s a jewel. 
Drop it an’ come on deck.” 

Saunderson set the half-fainting girl on the settee and turned 
to face the new force. There was in his eyes the look of a tiger 
when he turns from his mate to fight an enemy lurking in the 
background; but he moved up the ladder averting his gaze, 
without answer, and came to the boat trailing astern. He 
stooped to unfasten the painter and again the mate stood be- 
side him, hampering his movements, questioning his motives. 
He desired to know precisely what the skipper intended, and 
Saunderson looked up with a growl. 


376 


THE ISSUE 


“She’s going ashore. There’s bin some mistake,” he 
announced. 

“Oh! An’ ’oo’s goin’ to tike ’er?” 

“You are.” 

Marley swore vigorously that he had no intention of playing 
the goat any longer. He added the information that it was 
twelve miles or more to Southend and that the tide still ebbed. 
He expressed it as his opinion that the skipper had gone balmy, 
soft in the tater; but Saunderson took no heed. He lashed the 
boat amidships and proceeded to unbuckle his belt. He held 
it out to the mate, saying; 

“It’s yours if you land her — safe, mind — at Southend. It’s 
yours wiv what’s in it.” 

The mate stared. 

“’Ow do I know wot’s in it?” he questioned at length. 

Saunderson moved to the binnacle. “I’ll show you,” he 
said. 

Then he unfastened the leather strap about a thin, flat bag, 
and opened it. “See?” he remarked. “Gold. One, two, 
three, four pound — some odd shillin’s. I have no use for it — 
d’you take on?” 

Marley watched him out of small eyes. “It’s a gime I don’t 
like,” he said. “Wot’s be’ind it all ? I don’t want to be pulled 
up fer no kidnappin’ gime. Wot abaat the gell?” 

“ Go an’ ask her. Here, take this. Give it to her an ’tell 
her she’s to give that loose gold — same as I counted out — to you 
when you’ve landed her, safe — safe, mind!” he growled the 
iteration. “The distance is nothing. The night’s quiet — 
smooth as oil. The tide won’t hurt you, under the Sands. 
I’ll wait here till you come back. What do you say ? ” 

Marley considered the matter from this new standpoint. 
He turned on his heel and approached the cabin. 


■BILL MARLEY 


377 


“If the gell says yes/’ he decided, “I’m there.” 

Saunderson moved forward. He stood in the shadow of 
the mast awaiting the result. He knew what that would be. 

Susie would go. He would be left alone — alone to ChksI 

the mate was coming up the steps. He saw him stoop over 
the boat. Already ? 

He muttered grimly that they intended to lose no time — 
not a minute; then stood gripping the brails, marking their 
movements, fearful lest even now something should happen to 
mar the plan he had formed — to mar it! Pish! Susie came up 
the ladder. She approached the rail, looked into the boat, 
and stared up the misty sea. Saunderson found voice to shout 
at this an order to the mate: “Get a spare coat — blanket — 
somethin’ to wrap her in. It’s cold.” 

Marley obeyed. He returned laden and Susie stepped into 
the boat. She huddled down amidst the wraps. The mate 
followed her. He took his seat, shipped his sculls, pushed off. 
They moved out into the gray-white sheen. 

Saunderson stood alone now by the mainmast watching the 
circling ripples. 


CHAPTER VII 


A Challenge 


N HOUR Saunderson stood like one fascinated by the 



seascape; a sentinel on duty with no knowledge of 
what that duty was. 

The silence whelmed him. A certain number of minutes 
ago there had not been silence; but now the silence had come 
and it whelmed him. 

Out there a boat moved steadily over the tide. In it was 
the mate taking home again that girl whose presence had be- 
come a burden; whom he had sent ashore lest further trouble 
should ensue; lest by chance her presence prevented him mov- 
ing out of the danger zone, carrying into effect that plan he had 
formed. Plan ? What plan had he ? Had he a plan, or was 
it 

Saunderson passed down the companion stairs and lifted to 
lips his medicine. 

Again an hour had sped. Saunderson acknowledged it; 
yet something hindered him; something, the gist of which was 
lost as that boat was becoming lost. He was unable to decide 
what it was. It appeared that he desired to move out, to pro- 
ceed across that turgid stream and escape from the forces by 
which he was hemmed. 

But the river chained him. The calm, his fears, his irreso- 
lution chained him and he remained inert. Once he told him- 


378 


A CHALLENGE 


379 


self he could have moved; now he was somnolently content to 
question whether if he moved any result would ensue. 

The river gurgled in his ears. It played about the leeboard, 
stirring it, throwing up little rills. The sound annoyed him. 

It interfered with the 'sequence of his thoughts, prevented 
him seeing precisely how fast the boat moved out there amidst 
the oily stretches. He crossed over and discovered that a dead 
dog had fouled the chain. He leaned over with a boat hook 
and laboriously pushed it away. Again there was silence. 


The boat faded from sight. Her outline could be seen now 
only when the Mouse swang round; then for a moment it 
stood out upon the greenish sheen, like a log amidst the grass. 
He marvelled at its immobility and remembered that it was 
distant, distant as those acts of his which had borne such curi- 
ous fruit. He wondered why men called it fruit, why so much 
depended on what we do, why the boat hung there so long, a 
mere blotch to pester him; why that greenish tinge recurred so 
frequently and persistently. 

The river ran steadily onward throwing little whirlpools with 
a vortex of mud — mud like smoke which rose steadily from noth- 
ing. As he had risen from the dregs of humanity, from the 
scum of life seething in the whirlpools of our cities, so the mud 
rose from the river’s depths, without apparent cause, without 
any object but to smudge the seascape. Without volition, as 
in his case, so it drifted into silence — drifted on the path he 
trod, to oblivion, forgetfulness, death. Toward the one cer- 
tain event all men must face. 

Saunderson faced it now. He stared into depths more pro- 
found than those over which he leaned; but irresolution chain- 
ed him. He could not think nor decide; yet he shouted 


38 o 


THE ISSUE 


aloud that it was the one thing to do, and straightway fell into 
vacuity. 

His medicine revived him. 

When next he came on deck the boat had vanished. He 
missed it with a thrill of anguish, discovering for the first time 
that he was alone. The silence became intrusive. It stepped out 
of the void, as that triangle of lights down there was coming from 
the void, passed down the shimmering distance, and fell upon 
him like a cloak; as presently the shadow which accompanied 
the triangle would fall upon him like a cloak. 

The man rose and moved towards the companion. The 
small clock in the cabin skylight raced abominably. It spoke 
of the flight of time. It cried out to him with an idiotic beat 
which coincided strangely with his beating heart. It annoyed 
him. He crossed over and silenced it forever. 

He crept into the cabin, deciding that he must wait, that it 
was necessary the mate should have time to rejoin him, and 
lifted again his medicine. 

But he did not drink. A sound crept in upon him — a 
long and dismal cry like the hoot of an owl. But Saunderson 
knew that no owl cried there. He knew definitely where that 
sound had birth, and paused there, bottle raised, a look of 
horrible dread covering his features. 

He set the bottle down, a swift movement, and slid up the 
companion; but here he went slowly, lifting his head by de- 
grees from the scuttle as though he would see this thing which 
came to pester him, see it and smash it as he had smashed the 
clock. 

A triangle of lights approached; the apex of which was 
white. The steady flap of paddles increased in volume; on 
one wheel was a loose float grinding in a fashion which indi- 


A CHALLENGE 


381 


cates either carelessness or cheeseparing. To Saunderson 
there was but one meaning to it all. This boat which called 
with the voice of an owl and rattled with a float in her star- 
board sponson was the Stormy Petrel; the vessel on which he 
had fought Elliott that night at the edge of the Gat, the vessel 
owned by the firm which once had acknowledged Dunscombe 
as its lord — Dunscombe for whose murder it appeared he 
stood charged. 

Saunderson moved into the shadow of the mizzen and stood 
watching. He acknowledged that this tug was the Stormy 
Petrel and questioned audibly what it wanted there; but 
remained irresolute, staring at the swirling river until the flap- 
ping ceased and a voice cried out — the voice of Micky 
Doolan: 

^^Red Gauntlet there! What ho there! Red GauntletP 

Again Saunderson relapsed into that lethargy which had 
troubled him. His mind had been occupied with the trend 
of events, with the stealthy approach of that thing which dog- 
ged him, but with Micky’s voice a new danger sprang. Micky 
T>oo\2inmih.e Stormy Petrel? Ah! in that case he had botched 
his hand. Micky Doolan Tony Crow, Jack Elliott — they 
were one — and Elliott had returned. He acknowledged the 
fatuity of waiting, yet waited growling and apprehensive of 
action. 

A voice came up to him from the boat rowing now to board 
him. Who’s voice? Chks! what odds. The thing ap- 
proached manned by a crowd. A crowd — he counted them as 
they drew near: one, two, three, four, five, six. Six men from 
the Stormy Petrel? Ssss! his fancy played with him. It 
could not be. The tug had not six men in addition to the 
black watch. Saunderson waited there, elbows on the guard, 
searching the river for an answer; but the river had no answer 


382 


THE ISSUE 


to give. It ran by gurgling and aswirl with eddying garbage 
and no hint of the truth appeared. 

The boat fell alongside in the waist. The noise of oars 
tumbling inboard and the hum of voices as men climbed the 
rail awoke him and he lurched forward, truculent and vicious 
to meet them. 

“Who’s that?” he growled, “an’ what d’ye want?” 

A group of figures gathered round him and one touched him 
on the shoulder. 

“Wheer’s t’ lass?” said a voice and Tony Crow towered 
before him. 

“The lass — what lass?” 

“Susie Sutcliffe — the lass ye stole from her home wi’ lies 
an’ blather.” 

Saunderson measured the group about him and answered 
without pause. 

“The lass is not here; she’s gone.” 

“Gone wheer?” 

“Home.” 

“Look, ma sons,” the blacksmith ordered; “see if he lies.” 
Then as two moved away to obey he turned banteringly on the 
skipper. 

“Cap’n Saundisson!” he said, “ah’m praad t’ greet ye. 
Ah’ve bin lookin’ for ye ta keep yon promise o’ yourn.” 

Saunderson moved with an oath, but the men pressed in 
upon him and he was powerless. He knew now what had 
happened. These men, whereof Tony Crow was the spokes- 
man, had tracked him down and meant to take him. He 
acknowledged that he was hemmed in, beaten; but with the 
advent of opposition his brain regained power. He took grip 
of the situation, searching for means of escape; but the burly 
blacksmith pressed in upon him, pinning him down to answer. 


A CHALLENGE 


383 


‘‘Ah’m waitin’, ” he cried, “Ah’m no fu’ ta the heilt wi’ 
patience. Will ye fetcht? Or am I ta hit ye cowardly?” 

“I’ll fight you when an’ where you like.” 

“Right; then we’ll get ashore wi oot any more clack.” 

“Ashore?” 

“Aye; on the sands yonder.” 

Saunderson turned and stared across the misty strip of 
intervening sea. A notion came to him. The sands were 
nearer the shore by a mile than where they lay. If he could 
reach them might he not also reach the farther stretch — the 
Maplins, beyond which were the Essex marches, the Crouch, 
Burnham, Malden and a score of places abounding with river 
craft and means of exit. Would he land on the sands yonder 
and fight ? Aye, would he. He gave the answer with a rush 
of passion and instantly the men moved for the boat. 

He climbed into the stern sheets with Micky Doolan, Tony 
Crow, and two others. They started for the Mouse. 

And as they moved shoreward another boat, which had left 
the Stormy Petrel while they talked, came to the sands and 
landed her burden. 

But Saunderson knew nothing of this. He sat there staring 
into the sheen — the sheen which hung wavering over the sands, 
and beyond 


CHAPTER VIII 


The Issue 


LONELY stretch of unclaimed terrain, perhaps a mile 



in length and nearly as broad, lay in the eye of the 
moon where they landed. The swell rolled up to meet it 
and died in a splutter of thickened foam far up the slope. 
Little terraces of ridged sand marked the efforts of the waves, 
but beyond the line of refuse the bank was smooth and curved 
as a turtle’s back. 

In the near distance a light revolved. Thrice each minute 
it grew bright and as often waned — the pale, green glare of the 
Mouse shining through the mistiness. It lighted the sands with 
recurrent flashes and threw unstable shadows of the group 
struggling to beach their boat. Farther afield a second signal 
winked in solemn loneliness marking the presence of the Oaze. 
Between it and the sands it guarded, half curtained in the fitful 
light, lay the two vessels, the Red Gauntlet and the tug; and in 
the farther channel, moored at the edge of the Swin was a 
wherry. About them all the gulls swerved and fought for 
food uncovered by the ebb. 

Saunderson stood alone. It seemed at that moment that 
chance opened a door for him. The men were busy with the 
boat — unaccountably slow in their movements; he examined 
the distance and found it a solitude. Before him lay that means 
of exit of which he had dreamed; a means by which even now 
he might evade the issue. His pulses stirred. He moved 
stealthily up the slope. The voices of the men waned. Tony 


384 


THE ISSUE 


385 


Crow stooped, apparently deep in the measurements of the 
Queensberry ring and Saunderson passed unheeding. He 
laughed in his sleeve as he noted their dilatory movements. 
Perhaps Tony Crow, after all, was not aching for that fight 
he had challenged. Chks! the men were behind him. He 
leaped forward at a run. 

The tricky light favoured him and for a while no sound 
broke the stillness beyond the dull thud of his heavy passage. 
Then a cry rang out, sharp, tense, and instantly he redoubled 
his efforts. 

The men were gathering in pursuit. He knew this without 
pausing to see. They were hurrying fast in his tracks but the 
advantage lay now with him. Already he had come well in 
view of the farther channel, and there, as though arranged by 
Providence to succour him, lay a wherry, quiescent at the edge 
of the sands. Only a narrow strip of water intervened. He 
could wade it on his head. Who could have left a boat in 
such a position? He laughed aloud. The question tickled 
him; but it was one he could leave for those others to solve. 
The boat was there and he would use her. 

He came down the slope panting and at speed. In two 
minutes he would be in the water, in two more he would be on 
board. He shouted his triumph— then suddenly, swiftly drew 
rein. 

Three forms rose from the dark line marking the edge of 
high water and stood to hold him. 

“Stand in the King’s name!” 

The voice rang harshly in that dreary solitude. The men 
advanced; but Saunderson had already turned and was moving 
heavily back in his tracks. His jocularity died. He knew 
now why he had been permitted to land, why the men had 
remained so long fiddling with the boat; knew and cursed the 


386 


THE ISSUE 


strategy which had drawn him on; but still he kept his head 
and ran as he had not run since he was a boy. A mad rage 
took possession of him. Somehow he would escape. No man 
should take him. Least of all would he surrender. If he 
must die he would die fighting — fighting as a man. 

He came to the top of the sands and looked about him. The 
men were no longer visible. He stumbled upon a hollow and 
instantly crouched low to garner his forces. His breath failed 
him; the sweat poured down his face; his knees trembled 
from his unaccustomed effort. He lay with his chin on his 
arms, panting, watching, and in silence. 

And as he rested, twisting in his mind the small and in- 
considerable details of his flight, the crunch of sand arrested 
his attention and he lifted his head. 

A man came slowly down the bank before him. He was 
alone. Saunderson cowered still deeper in the shadow. The 
footsteps approached. He saw that of necessity he must be 
discovered and rose at once to meet who came. He had re- 
gained his breath. Some one barred his passage. He stood 
measuring the distance, balanced, ready to spring; but the 
man halted and a voice fell upon the pause. 

“What ho! Win’bag Saunderson as I’m a living soul. 
Stand out, man! stand out!” 

It was Elliott who paused there in the sheeny light to mock 
him; Elliott who was winning again as he always won; Elliott 
who had returned to give him into the hands of his enemies. 
The knowledge stung him. Elliott! The man preferred by 
the girl; the man of men he hated. The strength of his en- 
mity outweighed his discretion. He sprang forward with a snarl. 

“Aye,” he shouted, “Win’bag Saunderson, game to fight 
you as he’s always fought you— face to face, man to man; but 
now for that boat instead of the — Flames! d’ye take on?” 


THE ISSUE 


387 


Elliott took off his coat and tossed it aside. 

“Take on?’^ he cried. “God! that’s what I’m here for. It’s 
what I’ve lived for. It’s what you are here for. Boat ? Aye, 
if you can beat me, Win’bag, you shall have the boat. If I 
beat you I’ll come and see you swing. You’ve fought me fair, 
have you? God’s truth — stand out and begin what’s never 
been your game. Stand out!” 

The two men rapidly stripped to the waist. They stood 
now barebacked and without shoes, marking their distance on 
the soft sand. And the swinging glare from the Mouse fell 
upon them, painting them green. 

A faint cry came over the sea and Elliott half turned to 
listen. Saunderson saw his advantage and instantly leaped 
upon him. “Lie down, dawg!” he growled and struck him 
heavily. Elliott swayed, but kept his feet and dodging the 
savage skipper hooked with his left as he passed, and Saunder- 
son measured his length on the sand. 

“Get up! Fight fair,” Elliott shouted, sparring back with 
the calmness born of practised combat. “Fight fair!” he 
reiterated as the other lurched to his feet. Then again as his 
opponent rushed in he stepped aside and struck him to his 
knees. 

Saunderson rose more slowly now. He stood to draw his 
enemy on, and for a moment, the recollection of a former en- 
counter crossed his mind. Then Elliott had beaten him. Now 
if he were beaten again the end was at hand. He stepped 
backward, his fists raised, working in a circle to tempt this man 
to close. But Elliott had no intention of closing; he knew 
precisely what risks he incurred and danced lightly in Saunder- 
son’s track, keeping him always at arm’s length. 

A short interval at these tactics told Saunderson the younger 
man must win, unless he could reach in and stop him. He 


3^8 


THE ISSUE 


moved circumspectly — waiting. A cloud drew across the 
moon; the light behind became dim. It was an opportunity 
the skipper could scarcely miss. . He instantly checked his pace 
and darted under his opponent's guard. Two heavy blows 
reached Elliott; but again he sprang away and cut the skipper 
smartly over the eyes. Twice he struck before the man could 
recover, then with a sudden swing reached his temple and again 
Saunderson measured the sands. 

The moon peeped out touching the scene with a passing gleam. 
From the edge of the tide came the monotonous cry of the 
gulls sweeping the ebbing channels for scraps. From the 
nebulous haze the winking light of the Oaze mocked at the 
efforts of this man who would recognise nothing, who could 
learn nothing that would upset the theories in which he was 
steeped — ^and yet must be taught. A moment the moon stood 
over them deepening the shadows, then the scud swept up and 
its face was dim. 

Saunderson still lay prone upon his back. He raged at his 
ineptitude yet failed to comprehend the reason of it. He 
breathed more heavily now and noted the fact that Elliott 
stood there, cool and scarcely marked, to watch him, and he 
turned laboriously on his elbow. 

‘‘The boat’s still there, Win’bag!” came the phrase aimed 
to taunt him. “What d’you say? Getting tired?” 

“Tired!” 

Saunderson lurched to his feet. He was bleeding profusely 
and trembling from those efforts of his which had failed. 

“Tired?” he reiterated, “Lumme! no; not while I can see. 
Stand out!” 

“Right.” 

Elliott advanced without flurry. He was as calm and unflus- 
tered as his enemy was distressed. They faced each other 


THE ISSUE 389 

again, the younger man sparring back, the elder rushing wildly 
in chase. 

A blow fell on Saunderson’s breast. He drew a long, sob- 
bing breath and leaped forward swearing. Then Elliott 
tripped and instantly his foe was upon him delivering his stock 
of blows. They fell swiftly and for a moment it appeared that 
Elliott would be gripped; but again, with marvellous dex- 
terity, he evaded the big man’s clutches and springing aside 
delivered that deadly upper cut which so distressed his heavy 
opponent. Saunderson’s advantage disappeared. He bent 
a moment to regain breath and Elliott stood to greet him. 

They faced each other in dogged anger. Thuds fell which 
seemed to shake the stillness as the scud up there seemed to 
shake the moon. A moment the river was gleaming in its 
lustre; again it ran solemn and swift in the grayness. The 
noise of laboured breath and vicious oaths filled the night with 
j ets of sound. A procession of leaping and half-naked figures 
mocked these two grim fighters from the sands. The men closed. 
They stood at grip — Elliott quiet and firmly planted, Saunder- 
son wrecking his strength in futile bluster, swaying, panting. 
A minute they remained thus, poised against the skyline, then 
one moved from his feet, rose high in air, and fell with a thud — 
a sickening sound, heavy, squelching, nerveless. 

A brief gleam stole through the cloud rack and lighted the 
scene. Elliott halted there, panting from his exertions; but 
he stood. Saunderson lay breathless at his feet. 

Five minutes he remained as though stunned; then, dizzily 
and with infinite stealth, he edged toward his enemy’s leg. 
But Elliott saw him and leaped back. 

*‘Get up, man. Fight fair!” he shouted, and the gulls 
swerved high about them, screaming over the discoveries by 
which they lived. Saunderson maintained silence. 


390 


THE ISSUE 


“The boat’s mine, Win’bag; another minute and the chaps 
will he here. Are you game?” 

The taunt sufi&ced. Saunderson reached his feet. He 
reeled where he stood, but shouted as he had always shouted: 
“Come on! I’m wiv you. Gawd’s love! I’m wiv you to the 
end.” 

Neither man sparred now. Each faced his foe and strove 
by sheer weight of muscle to crush him. But Saunderson’s 
sense of aim was gone. He pummelled the air. His blows 
fell on space and with each lunge Elliott dodged and cut him 
under the guard. The Skipper was vanquished, he was breath- 
less, he ached in every limb, he was blind. His age, his habits, 
his weight, all made him an easy prey for this force which had 
returned to destroy him; yet still he contended, foot to foot, 
eye to eye, striving with the dumb patience of the brutes to 
fence the shower that rained upon him. 

Then, suddenly, Elliott closed and once more gripped his 
man by the middle. A yell of anger left Saunderson’s lips as 
he moved from the ground: “Gawd! Not that — not that!” 

Quicker this time, more swiftly through the darkness, and 
again he lay prone. 

He remained where he fell and for an hour the swinging 
glare from the lightship stole over the pair, painting them 
green. 

An hour, then once again the boats crept over the face of the 
waters carrying a man sunk in that lethargy against which he 
was unable to fight. 


CHAPTER IX 


The Two Who Sowed 

S AUNDERSON lay on the settee within the small cabin 
which was his home. 

The police who remained on board imagined that he 
slept, but he did not sleep; he was aware of his bonds and 
with a subtlety that had newly come to him, sought how even 
at this hour he might regain his freedom. 

For some time he lay there considering this matter. There 
were men on deck. He could hear them walking to and fro — 
six steps this way, six that. The monotony of it annoyed him. 
He desired at that moment to silence them, yet remained 
quiescent until the rattle of a chain told him some vessel had 
come to anchor close at hand. It now occurred to him that he 
should go on deck and see whether they had left him a clear 
berth. It was his prerogative, yet still he remained there 
couched, ruminating, twiddling with the handcuffs with which 
he was bound. 

He strove to draw them from his wrists, covertly, under 
shelter of the table; and again rested. He acknowledged 
after a while that a belaying pin or the windlass lever was nec- 
essary to enable him to accomplish his desire — and to reach 
either he must gain the deck. But while those men walked it 
was impossible — that he acknowledged, shaking his head, 
hugely alert. Then, suddenly as it appeared, the tramping 
ceased. Voices rose up there in the darkness; men called one 
to the other from a distance. “What vessel is that? Where 

391 


392 


THE ISSUE 


are you bound? Got a drink on board?’’ Answers came 
back, muffled, perplexing — Saunderson could not define the 
answers. 

He heard the men approach the skylight and recognised that 
they looked down upon him. He knew that one hauled a boat 
alongside. He knew too that one or more presently crossed 
the deck, opened the scuttle and descended. He discovered 
that a bullseye shone across the cabin, that someone flashed 
it close in his face; but he remained undisturbed, silent. A 
dead man would have given no greater sign than did Saunderson. 

A pause ensued. One whispered to the other. A voice 
said: “Oh, he’s breathing right enough,” the ghost of a voice; 
but Saunderson heard and understood. Then followed the 
movement of men crossing the cabin, ascending the stairs, 
shutting and locking the scuttle; again, after a minute, the 
noise of shipped oars, of rowing, and Saunderson sat erect. 

The men were gone. All of them? He questioned this 
madness and set about discovering the answer. He mounted 
the small table, lifted the skylight, and peered out. The decks 
seemed empty. Across the river he caught sight of the boat 
moving toward an anchored barge. 

Chks! Did they suppose he was dead? Did they imagine 

the mauling he had received was sufficient to Chks! with 

hands made clumsy by the manacles, he unscrewed the sky- 
light and, pushing it free of the clamp, let it fall backward upon 
its twin. 

Now at length it was possible to move farther. 

A box placed on the table gave him further easement. He 
clambered out and wriggled snakewise along the deck; then, 
standing in the shadow cast by the mast, examined the outlook. 

The decks held no one. The small forecastle was empty-^ 
a light burning in it beside the stove. Saunderson moved more 


THE TWO WHO SOWED 


393 


freely. He approached the windlass lever and raising his 
hands brought the swivel crashing on the iron — once, twice, 
thrice, and with a wrench he was free. He babbled of the fact 
as he moved to further effort. A glance told him that if he 
hove in cable as men usually heave it, the noise would bring 
those men back in ten minutes. He leaned over the pall rack 
considering this and presently, with the help of a few rope 
yarns, had the things fast, silent as the night. 

Again he babbled like a child of his strategy and swiftly 
wound up the anchor. So, he no longer lay still. The tide 
carried him outward, farther each moment from that vessel 
lying there with his captors on board. 

He glanced up river and found that the barge was sunk in 
the haze. Already? He leaped responsive, chattering still 
of the idiocy of those thirsty souls who had captured him and 
given him his freedom. The light air helped him when pres- 
ently he had made sail. He leaned there by the wheel, grimly 
fingering the spokes. 

The Red Gauntlet sagged down river like a wraith, carrying 
this man to the harvest. 


The turgid night oppressed him. In face of that mist and 
streaming scud; within sound of those rolling breakers dis- 
olving in spume at the edge of the sands, he could not think. 
He desired thought. In that fashion alone was it possible to 
arrange those matters which cried so clamorously for decision. 
The barge drove in the fairway, there were no other vessels 
about. He told himself she would take no harm and crept into 
the cabin seeking the silence which had become imperative — 
if decision were to be come at. But here the lamp burned low 
with a gurgling noise in its throat that sounded like a laugh, 


394 


THE ISSUE 


a hideous, still-born laugh — dead at its birth. Saunderson 
examined the thing with eyes which denoted his extremity and 
announced that it cried out for oil. He essayed to trim it, 
unsteadily, with shaking hands — like a man in a palsy. He 
found a can of paraffin, unscrewed the lamp, filled it, lighted 
it and left the drum where it stood, on the edge of the table. It 
held five gallons. 

Now, at length, it appeared that he had compelled a silence 
which was absolute. He crossed the deck and sitting before 
the stove asked himself what next he must do. 

But now the silence troubled him. It marked his loneliness. 
It pointed to the inevitable approach of that fate which dogged 
him and for which he was unprepared. He leaned forward, 
staring into the fire and struggling to shut out the teeming 
fancies. Something he had decided to do. What was it? 
The idea evaded him. It passed from his brain, leaving a 
curious sense of aloofness which in itself was sufficient to cause 
him unrest. What was wrong ? Why could he not decide ? 

He glanced up — the swift, scared look of one who sees shad- 
ows where no shadows exist. 

The visions of the night were upon him, his brain clogged 
with ideas, tag-ends of sentences, conversations — all in frag- 
ments, broken up and mixed like the debris shovelled into a 
destructor. 

He searched about for means by which he might piece these 
things together, and in the midst of a silence like the silence of 
death a persistent noise assailed his ears. 

He lifted his face to gaze furtively over his shoulder and the 
mate’s dog, who had approached to search the fender for 
scraps, fled up the steps at sight of the man’s awakening. 

Saunderson leaned forward. “It’s the dawg,” he said. 
Then again; “Spuds! here boy — come here.” But the animal, 


THE TWO WHO SOWED 


395 


dreading a kick, only ran the faster, whining with fright. 
Saunderson groaned. The dog had turned from him now, 
when in his mental agony even the companionship of a brute 
would have been welcome to aid him in blotting out the past. 

He drew his hands across his bruised and swollen face and 
instantly the fanciful procession commenced anew. 

Thought maddened him. He could not discover the end. 
It approached, playing with him as a cat plays with the bird it 
has maimed. How would it take him ? When would it take 
him? He muttered hoarsely: ‘T’m not fit. Gawd! I’m not 
fit. ]My hand was forced. Men starvin ’ ; women in the gutter. 
Masters suckin’ their blood — fillin’ their purses wiv gold stolen 
from the sweat of men — stolen by competition, stolen by quibble 
— stolen by devilry. How could I help it? I couldn’t help 
it. Lies! I say I couldn’t ” 

He glanced over his shoulder and sprang to his feet, crying 
out : “ Who spoke ? Who’s there ? Who says I did it for self ? 
Lies! No one spoke. Nothin’s there. Shadows an’ dark- 
ness — darkness an’ shadows an’ lies.” 

He returned to his seat and sat there glaring uneasily into 
space, then crept to the locker and discovered his medicine. 
It seemed at that moment that he had nearly forgotten it; but 
now he took it and, stealing cautiously backward, climbed 
the steps and reached the deck. 

The Red Gauntlet still lay there, sagging broadside with the 
tide, silent as though a plague had struck her and left her 
peopled by the ghosts of her crew. Saunderson stood watching, 
facing sands where the swell rolled a misty foam-cloud into 
the night. It hung wavering in the tricky moonlight, singing 
the requiem of the sea, red with the shade of the Maplin, white 
under the eye of the moon. He stared into the sheen and his 
wife’s words rang in his brain; 


396 


THE ISSUE 


“On the river when it is dark, I will be with you. In your 
sleep I shall be at your side, flitting unseen. In lonely roads or 
silent anchorages I shall be near you, driving you to that hell 
you are always talking of.” 

The memory struck him with a frenzy and he leaped from 
the hatches to search for a boat. A boat should be fast astern 
— the one boat the Red Gauntlet carried. He would use her 
and row away from this place which was accursed. 

He came aft and stood in search; but no boat was there, for 
the mate by some chance had not returned. He acknowledged 
the fact, admitting that it cut him off from escape. Alone, 
deserted alike by God and man, he was left to meet that end 
of which he had dreamed and could not fathom. A moment 
he stood examining the shadows, shouting his fears into the 
void, questioning why he was debarred this one chance of 
escape ? 

But the river had no answer to give. It ran past him, gurgl- 
ing and carrying on its bosom the garbage of a great town; it 
swept seaward, down the channels, across the sands, out to- 
wards the profound and restless sea. 

Again Saunderson left the deck and crept into his small 
cabin. He slammed the scuttle upon his solitude and sat down 
nursing his medicine. 


And suddenly, despite the fact that an hour had elapsed, 
a noise awoke the brooding man. The sea had grown strangely 
still, the swell no longer troubled him and the noise continued — 
a sliding, grinding scrape, as of a boat drawn down a shingly 
beach. 

Saunderson no longer dozed over the fire. He reached the 
deck shouting his fears: “What now? What now?” Ah, he 


THE TWO WHO SOWED 


397 


might have known it. He had reached the tail of the sands, 
the sands of which he had been dreaming. 

The Red Gauntlet no longer sagged in the midst of the channel; 
she lay quivering and full of strange thrills, edging her way 
like a bird in a bath of dust, preparing for rest. 

Saunderson moved about the deck as a man distraught. 
Forward, aft, amidships, he laboured with a pole, seeking to 
force his way into deeper water. He hauled the sheets to wind- 
ward and stood watching. The sails flapped dismally, the 
barge rolled; but no wind stirred, and overhead the scud 
raced. 

It was a travesty of all expected things. He shouted his 
contempt, his challenge, his unspeakable disdain; then, tired 
by the violence of his passion, crept into the cabin and closed 
the scuttle. Again he drank of his medicine. He was weary — 
very weary. He averred as he sat watching before the stove 
that never before had he been so weary. His eyes closed. For 
a while the man slept. 


A sound awakened him and he leaned back against the 
lockers. 

The lamp swinging up there in the skylight as the barge 
rolled, cast shadows on the white wood deck. The table, the 
stove, a pendant oilskin, all swaying slowly, threw their images 
across him and crawled about as though imbued with life. 

Saunderson sat watching, his eyes drawn, his muscles twitch- 
ing. Each shadow was a living soul. Each tricky phantasy of 
light some companion he had known. He leaped up with a 
shout of fear. Great drops of sweat stood on his forehead. 
^‘Take ’em away!” he cried out. ‘^Gawd! take ’em away.” 

But the motley array of haggard men and women streamed 


398 


THE ISSUE 


past and stood drawn up in line to mock him, Saunderson 
recognised this and crept backward to bestow himself, huddled 
and mouthing, beside the cabin table. It seemed necessary that 
he leave them room to move. 

“They’re come,” he announced with thin lips, “they’re come 
to see me finish. Shhh! How many of ’em?” He paused to 

count: “One, two, three, four, five” but the number 

stretched indefinitely and Saunderson drew back with a 
leer. “We’ll call it five,” he said, “five, all gibberin’ like 
fools. 

“Stand back! Stand back! Shhh! There’s Lucy, an’ 
there’s Jo — Polly her name was. Mary, you slut! I never 
chucked you — ’twere your fault. Jenny, you there? Smilin’ 
still — waitin’ to see me swing? Stay! I’m not goin’ to swing. 
It’s the Gat — the curse. Whish! stand back! Jenny, come 
here, come here, for Gawd’s sake an’ talk to me. Won’t ? 
I might have known it. Shhh! they’re asleep; they’d best stay 
asleep forever.” 

He crawled to the table, avoiding the moving shadows and 
with a madman’s stealthy movement obtained the can of 
paraffin. 

He withdrew the cork, searched for a knife, and set himself 
to chew the stopper smaller. This done he again fitted it to 
the mouth of the can, tipped it and secured it on the table. 
When tilted with an eye to effect a slow stream dribbled to the 
deck. Saunderson remarked it and drew back gibbering and 
pointing and begging for silence. 

“They’re all asleep,” he whispered; “no one can wake ’em 
now. Lucy’s lyin’ down — cawn’t keep her head up. Mary! 
you slut, sit down. Hush! d’ye mind what ye did wiv your 
babby? Laid on it. I say you did! No more squawkin’ — 
I say you did. Stand back, you shiverin’ fool!” 


THE TWO WHO SOWED 


399 


He drew away from the shadow again and watched the 
dripping oil. As the barge ambled under the influence of the 
flood, so the paraffin ran over the table edge on either side the 
stove. It stole across the cabin deck in growing rivulets. It 
trickled now this way, now that, until it had saturated not only 
the deck but the man, sitting there and counting his silent 
guests. 

But Saunderson heeded nothing of this. He saw his puppets 
slowly stained and sodden and pushed the oil across to where 
he saw them sleeping. 

“Shhh!” he mouthed. Lilly, you’ll never look me in the 
face again wiv them red eyes. You’re goin’ on a long journey 
my gell. You told me that before; but now you’re back an’ 
who’s that you’ve got beside you? Snuffles! What’s that 
you’re tellin’ him? Get your eyes off him. Yaas, I own up. 
I done it. You’ll shake your finger at me, will you? Slut! 
I say you’re goin’ on a long journey again. Maybe you’ll 
never come back — you nor, him — nor ” 

He clambered to the stove and pushed a piece of paper 
through the bars. “I’ve got a way to finish you off!” he 
hissed, his voice leaping. “You an’ him an’ all the crew. 
Go down to hell an’ burn. Go down an’ burn. Gawd!” 

Something sizzled in the fender. A light crept out. It 
danced like summer lightning, like the lightning he had seen 

out there — where Whirr! A blaze of fire encircled him. 

He rolled in it. He could not shake it off. He screamed and 
lurching up the ladder reached the deck. The blanket roared 
about him. Flames crackled in his hair. He leaped out to 
stifle them. 

A sudden plunge; a hiss of steam; a voice in the darkness — 
and silence. The silence of the wide estuary beset with moving 
ships; the silence of the cold and pitiless moon shrouded in 


400 


THE ISSUE 


fleecy cloudlets; the silence of the great unknown from whence 
no sound has ever come to warn us. 

A breeze stirred on the face of the waters and the Red Gaunt- 
let moving before it drove now towards London, curiously 
lighted. 

Meanwhile the Stormy Petrel flapped up river under Elli- 
ott’s guidance seeking the boat wherein Susie moved home- 
ward. 

For an hour they had zigzagged there in the mist, skirting 
the Maplins, and the lights of Southend had grown bright; 
but the boat remained unfound. At the pier where for a while 
they paused, they learned that no one had landed since nine 
o’clock; certainly no girl had come ashore. It seemed pos- 
sible therefore that they had passed the boat somewhere mist- 
hidden, and turned at once to sweep the seaward horizon. 
They went slowly now, with frequent pauses to listen, and out 
of the sheen came the cry of the gulls; the note of passing 
steamers, and the dulled bray of the lightships shouting their 
warnings. 

Of wind there was scarcely a breath. A night of turgid 
placidity reigned, with a mist which would rapidly develop 
into fog with sunrise. The steaming breath of the marshes 
lay over them and somewhere out there where the mists seemed 
denser Susie sat in an open boat. 

Elliott marched the bridge, alert, keen to retrieve; the crew 
with Micky Doolan at the wheel had eyes for nothing but their 
quest. Somewhere between Southend and the Red Gauntlet 
the girl would be found. Of that they made no question. A 
sailor given orders to reach a certain place and having to con- 
tend against certain natural forces would move in one way 


THE TWO WHO SOWED 


401 


only. Marley would skirt the sands. By doing this he would 
“cheat the tide” and save himself labour; that was abun- 
dantly certain. Only a fool moves against forces when he may 
harness them to his service, and Marley was no fool. 

Elliott, Micky Doolan, and all those who were with them had 
no qualms on the subject. The only hindrance was the mist, 
and to give their passage a trifle more definition, they made 
music on their horn. That at all events was distinctive enough 
as those know who have writhed under the torture; but to 
these men horns speak a language. They can say off hand: 
“Ah — the Antwarp boat” or “The Londoner at it again” or 
“Hear the Storm Cock crowin’, matee?” 

And so with the Stormy Petrel. She carried an instrument 
of doleful intonation; a thing which gave out a dirge-like, 
sorrowing yell that no river man having once heard would ever 
mistake in the future. 

They played upon it now in that haze and fleeting mist; 
lying sometimes idly to gather response, then again moving 
forward, searching the shadows — and so at length arrived once 
more in the Warp and came to a pause on the measured mile 
which lies off Shoeburyness. But Susie still lay somewhere 
in that haze with which they were shrouded. 

Anxiety gripped them now. They questioned what it 
boded. Was this chap Marley all right? Could they trust 
him? And the answers came in vague contractions; some 
knew him and decided, twisting their words: “Marley I hoyuss; 
’ee’s all right”; but halted at further explanation: “Marley 
was — yass, there’s no two ways abaat that — Marley ’s all right; 
but he’s bin doin’ a bit o’ South Spainin’ lately an’ — ” the 
vague intangibility droned on mouthing of the degeneracy of 
all those who come under foreign influence. 

Again they moved. The night was perhaps less dark. The 


402 


THE ISSUE 


mist hanging over the sands was whiter, more reflective of the 
moon standing there, high in the south. The song of the surf 
rolled to greet them, the dull drone of the engines sang in their 
ears, and out there rang a sound which had newly come into 
being- 

Micky Doolan punched the gong — one stroke, emphasising 
it with “Sthop!’’ Then after a moment with pricked ears: 
“ Whisht 1 did ye hear that?” 

“I hear the surf,” Elliott admitted. ‘‘Get her along.” 

“You’re wrong,” the skipper decided; “ut’s a fog horn — a 
hand trumpet, my son, that’s what ut was.” 

“Well, and what then?” 

“Then — oh! as fer that, well, an’ isnt’ it loikely that Bill 
Marley has a trumpet wid him in the boat, annyways ? ” 

Elliott moved over at this and the two faced the sands. 
“ Out there ut wass,” Micky explained. 

“Then that’s it agin?” Elliott suggested as a small note 
came down to them. 

“Ut is.” 

“Go for it, my son, and give them our horn.” 

The Stormy PetreVs cry moaned over the waters. It reached 
the dim solitudes where the gulls and the sand pipers hold 
revel and again as they paused came the new note, a cry idiotic 
and supremely absurd, like the bleat of a sheep astray on the 
marshes. But it sufficed; because, to these men, when you are 
unable to see the loom of the bleater, you may assume that he 
lies very near the water and that a boat holds him. 

Elliott sprang to the gong and punched it for full speed. 
‘Tt’s the boat,” he cried. “The boat as sure as guns. Get 
her along!” 

The skipper called down to the engine room, headed still 
farther over, then seized the whistle cord and blew a long, weird 


THE TWO WHO SOWED 


403 


call. And as they stood listening there came the notes of a 
song ringing curiously in the stillness: 

“ ‘If I had a maid as was so fair, 

Ho! U-rio. 

D’ye ye think I’d leave her to tear her hair.’ ” 

It was the song of the old-time packets and Elliott recog- 
nised it at once. But Micky Doolan recognised something 
more; the song was not only the song of the packet rats, but 
it was the song of a chum. A snatch of a new chanty rolled in 
their ears and both men held their breath to listen. : 

“ ‘The times are hard and the wages low— 

Leave her, Johnny, leave her; 

The fo’c’sle’s a hell where the slime does grow— 

Oh! It’s time for us to leave her.’ ” 

“Hear that?’’ Micky Doolan questioned boisterously* 
“Hear ut? Mother av God! ut’s Bill Marley.” 

But Elliott only paced to and fro the bridge. He spoke in 
a small voice. “Let her away, let her away!” he urged. 

The moonlight streamed through the scud as they stood 
gazing up river, and a small black blotch showed amidst the 
flashing waters. Both saw it. They pointed simultaneously. 
The dancing, black blotch was a boat. 

“Gad, man! give her wings.” 

“Wings ut is, sorr.” 

Elliott turned away. He descended to the main deck and 
came into the bows, asking himself whether Susie was there — 
whether after all he would win her — whether Saunderson had 
spoken straight when he said where the girl was, or whether 
this was only a further instance of the man’s cunning — the 
thing which had baffled him all these months. 

The tug crashed onward. He noticed that the water toss- 
ing under the forefoot was alive with tiny sparks, green, blue, 


404 


THE ISSUE 


iridescent, fiery. A curious fact, too, that bowboard over which 
he leaned used to carry the name in white letters; now they 
were yellow and only part of it appeared. Storm — hah! 
symbolic. He asked again who was in that boat and strove 
to pierce the tantalising sheen; but his eyes were blurred, 
blurred as were his thoughts. He must wait. 

In five minutes they had drawn so near that a man’s figure 
came into view, standing erect, waving his arms. Why the 
devil did he play the fool and risk Susie’s life? Cha! Was 
Susie there? Was anyone there beside that madman? The 
words of a song droned on his ears: 

‘One lime duck, an’ a cockey two — 

Leave ’er, Johnny, leave ’er; 

Is all that is left of ’er bloomin’ crew — 

O! ’twer time for us to leave ’er.’” 

The accent of Seven Dials. Odds take the fool, who wants 
to hear about ” 

“The gell ain’t there!” growled a fireman all sooty and 
reeking with sweat. “Onlie Bill’s there. Hell!” 

He turned and walked aft, disconsolate. 

Elliott searched the boat: “Only Bill? Who was Bill? 
Two figures were there — two. His impatience grew. He 
lifted his voice to shout: “Who’s there? In God’s name, 
who’s there?” 

“Bill Marley an’ the mide. Stidy steamboat — dahn’t run 
us dahn!” 

“Go easy Micky! Port! Port a bit.” Elliott faced 
ahead. He saw and cried out joyfully: “Susie! My God 
it’s Susie.” 

A voice came out of the shimmering waste, tremulously 
questioning: “Is that Jack? Is it?” Then in more definite 
tones: “Is that Jack Elliott?” 


THE TWO WHO SOWED 


405 


*‘Aye, lad I Stop her, Micky. Stop her.” 

The boat fell alongside and Marley grabbed at the rope 
which was thrown. “Lumme!” he growled, “if this don^t 
beat a sun-dahner’s breckfust, tell me. A stroke astarn, skip! 
So! Stop ’er. Naa then, Missy, give me yer ’and. This 
yer steambat’s a disy fer jumpin’ — ^an’ ’er’ commodation ladder 
ain’t the pawler steps. Stidy! Naa then, jump’s the word.” 

The girl sprang lightly up the side as the tug lurched down 
and in a moment she was in Jack’s arms: 

“God love you, lass! God love you!” he cried, holding 
her close. 

“Oh! Jack, Jack — my husband ” 

The group melted away. Some one swore vigorously in a thin 
falsetto. Micky Doolan sprang at him with an expressionless 
face. He pointed at the forecastle ladder and the figure disap- 
peared. Then the skipper ascended the bridge ladder, examin- 
ing the rungs with keen interest. “Be the skin av their teeth,” 
he remarked, “an’ the luck av the divil. Arroo! Mrs. 
Surridge. Arroo! Tony Crow ye long galoote. Ar ” 

A breeze stirred the face of the waters and the Stormy 
Petrel moving with renewed freedom passed on toward Lon- 
don, braying on a horn that aped the note and diction of a 
cock crowing to greet the rising sun. 


EPILOGUE 


A GALE drove over the cold North Sea — the gale for 
which Saunderson had prayed. 

For four days it raged with the hand of a master, 
lashing the sands with a switch that left the air alive with 
hisses. The sands laughed. They drew back their lips and 
showed teeth. The power they fought was afflicted by a mon- 
strous indecision. Sometimes if flowed across them, some- 
times yelped at their feet. It gathered force out there in the 
grayness and swept down upon them to blot them from their 
place; then died in a splutter of foam and mist and twisting 
eddies. The sands laughed aloud. The Gat was knee deep 
in feathers plucked from the breast of its enemy. 

The lightships watched, bending like trees on a wind-swept 
plain. They called to each other with their flags: ‘‘All right. 
Black Deeps? All well, Edinburgh? Tongue, Mouse, 
Prince — what especially of the Tongue, lurching farthest 
amidst the spume ? ** And the answer came back through the 
buffettings, the groans, and the turmoil of the sea: “All well. 
We stand. All well. Seen the Tender ?* 

On the third day the watchers on the Red Kentish Knockf 
espied a body floating in the trough of the waves, and calling to 
each other the men told of the trouble that would fall on the 
homes ashore when the roll-call of the gale was read. But 
they knew not that none would weep for the dead they saw, 
for they knew not Saunderson, and it was he who drove about 


406 


♦Trinity boat. fA lightship. 


EPILOGUE 


407 


in the whirling spume and presently came to ground on the 
northern sands. 

Here he lay who had wrought so much suffering. Unsought, 
unwept, unburied; his brawny limbs naked to the driving 
seas, he lay there — the man of destiny; a product of modern 
civilisation; brainy, full of subtle argument, crammed to the 
eyes with distorted fact — believing nothing; believing all 
things. 

The Gat received him. It bared its teeth to give him wel- 
come. The shells rilled up and formed terraces about him. 
He stared wide-eyed into the sheen. 











